The Captain of the “Pole-Star”
And Other Tales

Arthur Conan Doyle

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TO
MY FRIEND
MAJOR-GENERAL A. W. DRAYSON
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN
OF
MY ADMIRATION FOR HIS GREAT
AND AS YET UNRECOGNISED SERVICES TO ASTRONOMY
This little Volume
IS
DEDICATED

Preface

For the use of some of the following Tales I am indebted to the courtesy of the Proprietors of “Cornhill,” “Temple
Bar,” “Belgravia,” “London Society,” “Cassell’s,” and “The Boy’s Own Paper.”

A. CONAN DOYLE, M.D.

The Captain of the “Pole-Star”

[Being an extract from the singular journal of JOHN M’ALISTER RAY, student of medicine.]

September 11th.— Lat. 81 degrees 40’ N.; long. 2 degrees E. Still lying-to amid enormous ice fields.
The one which stretches away to the north of us, and to which our ice-anchor is attached, cannot be smaller than an
English county. To the right and left unbroken sheets extend to the horizon. This morning the mate reported that there
were signs of pack ice to the southward. Should this form of sufficient thickness to bar our return, we shall be in a
position of danger, as the food, I hear, is already running somewhat short. It is late in the season, and the nights
are beginning to reappear.

This morning I saw a star twinkling just over the fore-yard, the first since the beginning of May. There is
considerable discontent among the crew, many of whom are anxious to get back home to be in time for the herring season,
when labour always commands a high price upon the Scotch coast. As yet their displeasure is only signified by sullen
countenances and black looks, but I heard from the second mate this afternoon that they contemplated sending a
deputation to the Captain to explain their grievance. I much doubt how he will receive it, as he is a man of fierce
temper, and very sensitive about anything approaching to an infringement of his rights. I shall venture after dinner to
say a few words to him upon the subject. I have always found that he will tolerate from me what he would resent from
any other member of the crew. Amsterdam Island, at the north-west corner of Spitzbergen, is visible upon our starboard
quarter — a rugged line of volcanic rocks, intersected by white seams, which represent glaciers. It is curious to think
that at the present moment there is probably no human being nearer to us than the Danish settlements in the south of
Greenland — a good nine hundred miles as the crow flies. A captain takes a great responsibility upon himself when he
risks his vessel under such circumstances. No whaler has ever remained in these latitudes till so advanced a period of
the year.

9 P.M.— I have spoken to Captain Craigie, and though the result has been hardly satisfactory, I am bound to say that
he listened to what I had to say very quietly and even deferentially. When I had finished he put on that air of iron
determination which I have frequently observed upon his face, and paced rapidly backwards and forwards across the
narrow cabin for some minutes. At first I feared that I had seriously offended him, but he dispelled the idea by
sitting down again, and putting his hand upon my arm with a gesture which almost amounted to a caress. There was a
depth of tenderness too in his wild dark eyes which surprised me considerably. “Look here, Doctor,” he said, “I’m sorry
I ever took you — I am indeed — and I would give fifty pounds this minute to see you standing safe upon the Dundee
quay. It’s hit or miss with me this time. There are fish to the north of us. How dare you shake your head, sir, when I
tell you I saw them blowing from the masthead?”— this in a sudden burst of fury, though I was not conscious of having
shown any signs of doubt. “Two-and-twenty fish in as many minutes as I am a living man, and not one under ten
foot.* Now, Doctor, do you think I can leave the country when there is only one
infernal strip of ice between me and my fortune? If it came on to blow from the north tomorrow we could fill the ship
and be away before the frost could catch us. If it came on to blow from the south — well, I suppose the men are paid
for risking their lives, and as for myself it matters but little to me, for I have more to bind me to the other world
than to this one. I confess that I am sorry for you, though. I wish I had old Angus Tait who was with me last voyage,
for he was a man that would never be missed, and you — you said once that you were engaged, did you not?”

* [A whale is measured among whalers not by the length of its body, but by the
length of its whalebone.]

“Yes,” I answered, snapping the spring of the locket which hung from my watch-chain, and holding up the little
vignette of Flora.

“Curse you!” he yelled, springing out of his seat, with his very beard bristling with passion. “What is your
happiness to me? What have I to do with her that you must dangle her photograph before my eyes?” I almost thought that
he was about to strike me in the frenzy of his rage, but with another imprecation he dashed open the door of the cabin
and rushed out upon deck, leaving me considerably astonished at his extraordinary violence. It is the first time that
he has ever shown me anything but courtesy and kindness. I can hear him pacing excitedly up and down overhead as I
write these lines.

I should like to give a sketch of the character of this man, but it seems presumptuous to attempt such a thing upon
paper, when the idea in my own mind is at best a vague and uncertain one. Several times I have thought that I grasped
the clue which might explain it, but only to be disappointed by his presenting himself in some new light which would
upset all my conclusions. It may be that no human eye but my own shall ever rest upon these lines, yet as a
psychological study I shall attempt to leave some record of Captain Nicholas Craigie.

A man’s outer case generally gives some indication of the soul within. The Captain is tall and well-formed, with
dark, handsome face, and a curious way of twitching his limbs, which may arise from nervousness, or be simply an
outcome of his excessive energy. His jaw and whole cast of countenance is manly and resolute, but the eyes are the
distinctive feature of his face. They are of the very darkest hazel, bright and eager, with a singular mixture of
recklessness in their expression, and of something else which I have sometimes thought was more allied with horror than
any other emotion. Generally the former predominated, but on occasions, and more particularly when he was thoughtfully
inclined, the look of fear would spread and deepen until it imparted a new character to his whole countenance. It is at
these times that he is most subject to tempestuous fits of anger, and he seems to be aware of it, for I have known him
lock himself up so that no one might approach him until his dark hour was passed. He sleeps badly, and I have heard him
shouting during the night, but his cabin is some little distance from mine, and I could never distinguish the words
which he said.

This is one phase of his character, and the most disagreeable one. It is only through my close association with him,
thrown together as we are day after day, that I have observed it. Otherwise he is an agreeable companion, well-read and
entertaining, and as gallant a seaman as ever trod a deck. I shall not easily forget the way in which he handled the
ship when we were caught by a gale among the loose ice at the beginning of April. I have never seen him so cheerful,
and even hilarious, as he was that night, as he paced backwards and forwards upon the bridge amid the flashing of the
lightning and the howling of the wind. He has told me several times that the thought of death was a pleasant one to
him, which is a sad thing for a young man to say; he cannot be much more than thirty, though his hair and moustache are
already slightly grizzled. Some great sorrow must have overtaken him and blighted his whole life. Perhaps I should be
the same if I lost my Flora — God knows! I think if it were not for her that I should care very little whether the wind
blew from the north or the south tomorrow.

There, I hear him come down the companion, and he has locked himself up in his room, which shows that he is still in
an unamiable mood. And so to bed, as old Pepys would say, for the candle is burning down (we have to use them now since
the nights are closing in), and the steward has turned in, so there are no hopes of another one.

September 12th.— Calm, clear day, and still lying in the same position. What wind there is comes from the
south-east, but it is very slight. Captain is in a better humour, and apologised to me at breakfast for his rudeness.
He still looks somewhat distrait, however, and retains that wild look in his eyes which in a Highlander would mean that
he was “fey”— at least so our chief engineer remarked to me, and he has some reputation among the Celtic portion of our
crew as a seer and expounder of omens.

It is strange that superstition should have obtained such mastery over this hard-headed and practical race. I could
not have believed to what an extent it is carried had I not observed it for myself. We have had a perfect epidemic of
it this voyage, until I have felt inclined to serve out rations of sedatives and nerve-tonics with the Saturday
allowance of grog. The first symptom of it was that shortly after leaving Shetland the men at the wheel used to
complain that they heard plaintive cries and screams in the wake of the ship, as if something were following it and
were unable to overtake it. This fiction has been kept up during the whole voyage, and on dark nights at the beginning
of the seal-fishing it was only with great difficulty that men could be induced to do their spell. No doubt what they
heard was either the creaking of the rudder-chains, or the cry of some passing sea-bird. I have been fetched out of bed
several times to listen to it, but I need hardly say that I was never able to distinguish anything unnatural.

The men, however, are so absurdly positive upon the subject that it is hopeless to argue with them. I mentioned the
matter to the Captain once, but to my surprise he took it very gravely, and indeed appeared to be considerably
disturbed by what I told him. I should have thought that he at least would have been above such vulgar delusions.

All this disquisition upon superstition leads me up to the fact that Mr. Manson, our second mate, saw a ghost last
night — or, at least, says that he did, which of course is the same thing. It is quite refreshing to have some new
topic of conversation after the eternal routine of bears and whales which has served us for so many months. Manson
swears the ship is haunted, and that he would not stay in her a day if he had any other place to go to. Indeed the
fellow is honestly frightened, and I had to give him some chloral and bromide of potassium this morning to steady him
down. He seemed quite indignant when I suggested that he had been having an extra glass the night before, and I was
obliged to pacify him by keeping as grave a countenance as possible during his story, which he certainly narrated in a
very straight-forward and matter-of-fact way.

“I was on the bridge,” he said, “about four bells in the middle watch, just when the night was at its darkest. There
was a bit of a moon, but the clouds were blowing across it so that you couldn’t see far from the ship. John M’Leod, the
harpooner, came aft from the foc’sle-head and reported a strange noise on the starboard bow.

“I went forrard and we both heard it, sometimes like a bairn crying and sometimes like a wench in pain. I’ve been
seventeen years to the country and I never heard seal, old or young, make a sound like that. As we were standing there
on the foc’sle-head the moon came out from behind a cloud, and we both saw a sort of white figure moving across the ice
field in the same direction that we had heard the cries. We lost sight of it for a while, but it came back on the port
bow, and we could just make it out like a shadow on the ice. I sent a hand aft for the rifles, and M’Leod and I went
down on to the pack, thinking that maybe it might be a bear. When we got on the ice I lost sight of M’Leod, but I
pushed on in the direction where I could still hear the cries. I followed them for a mile or maybe more, and then
running round a hummock I came right on to the top of it standing and waiting for me seemingly. I don’t know what it
was. It wasn’t a bear any way. It was tall and white and straight, and if it wasn’t a man nor a woman, I’ll stake my
davy it was something worse. I made for the ship as hard as I could run, and precious glad I was to find myself aboard.
I signed articles to do my duty by the ship, and on the ship I’ll stay, but you don’t catch me on the ice again after
sundown.”

That is his story, given as far as I can in his own words. I fancy what he saw must, in spite of his denial, have
been a young bear erect upon its hind legs, an attitude which they often assume when alarmed. In the uncertain light
this would bear a resemblance to a human figure, especially to a man whose nerves were already somewhat shaken.
Whatever it may have been, the occurrence is unfortunate, for it has produced a most unpleasant effect upon the crew.
Their looks are more sullen than before, and their discontent more open. The double grievance of being debarred from
the herring fishing and of being detained in what they choose to call a haunted vessel, may lead them to do something
rash. Even the harpooners, who are the oldest and steadiest among them, are joining in the general agitation.

Apart from this absurd outbreak of superstition, things are looking rather more cheerful. The pack which was forming
to the south of us has partly cleared away, and the water is so warm as to lead me to believe that we are lying in one
of those branches of the gulf-stream which run up between Greenland and Spitzbergen. There are numerous small Medusse
and sealemons about the ship, with abundance of shrimps, so that there is every possibility of “fish” being sighted.
Indeed one was seen blowing about dinner-time, but in such a position that it was impossible for the boats to follow
it.

September 13th.— Had an interesting conversation with the chief mate, Mr. Milne, upon the bridge. It seems that our
Captain is as great an enigma to the seamen, and even to the owners of the vessel, as he has been to me. Mr. Milne
tells me that when the ship is paid off, upon returning from a voyage, Captain Craigie disappears, and is not seen
again until the approach of another season, when he walks quietly into the office of the company, and asks whether his
services will be required. He has no friend in Dundee, nor does any one pretend to be acquainted with his early
history. His position depends entirely upon his skill as a seaman, and the name for courage and coolness which he had
earned in the capacity of mate, before being entrusted with a separate command. The unanimous opinion seems to be that
he is not a Scotchman, and that his name is an assumed one. Mr. Milne thinks that he has devoted himself to whaling
simply for the reason that it is the most dangerous occupation which he could select, and that he courts death in every
possible manner. He mentioned several instances of this, one of which is rather curious, if true. It seems that on one
occasion he did not put in an appearance at the office, and a substitute had to be selected in his place. That was at
the time of the last Russian and Turkish war. When he turned up again next spring he had a puckered wound in the side
of his neck which he used to endeavour to conceal with his cravat. Whether the mate’s inference that he had been
engaged in the war is true or not I cannot say. It was certainly a strange coincidence.

The wind is veering round in an easterly direction, but is still very slight. I think the ice is lying closer than
it did yesterday. As far as the eye can reach on every side there is one wide expanse of spotless white, only broken by
an occasional rift or the dark shadow of a hummock. To the south there is the narrow lane of blue water which is our
sole means of escape, and which is closing up every day. The Captain is taking a heavy responsibility upon himself. I
hear that the tank of potatoes has been finished, and even the biscuits are running short, but he preserves the same
impassible countenance, and spends the greater part of the day at the crow’s nest, sweeping the horizon with his glass.
His manner is very variable, and he seems to avoid my society, but there has been no repetition of the violence which
he showed the other night.

7.30 P.M.— My deliberate opinion is that we are commanded by a madman. Nothing else can account for the
extraordinary vagaries of Captain Craigie. It is fortunate that I have kept this journal of our voyage, as it will
serve to justify us in case we have to put him under any sort of restraint, a step which I should only consent to as a
last resource. Curiously enough it was he himself who suggested lunacy and not mere eccentricity as the secret of his
strange conduct. He was standing upon the bridge about an hour ago, peering as usual through his glass, while I was
walking up and down the quarterdeck. The majority of the men were below at their tea, for the watches have not been
regularly kept of late. Tired of walking, I leaned against the bulwarks, and admired the mellow glow cast by the
sinking sun upon the great ice fields which surround us. I was suddenly aroused from the reverie into which I had
fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow, and starting round I found that the Captain had descended and was standing by my
side. He was staring out over the ice with an expression in which horror, surprise, and something approaching to joy
were contending for the mastery. In spite of the cold, great drops of perspiration were coursing down his forehead, and
he was evidently fearfully excited.

His limbs twitched like those of a man upon the verge of an epileptic fit, and the lines about his mouth were drawn
and hard.

“Look!” he gasped, seizing me by the wrist, but still keeping his eyes upon the distant ice, and moving his head
slowly in a horizontal direction, as if following some object which was moving across the field of vision. “Look!
There, man, there! Between the hummocks! Now coming out from behind the far one! You see her — you MUST see her! There
still! Flying from me, by God, flying from me — and gone!”

He uttered the last two words in a whisper of concentrated agony which shall never fade from my remembrance.
Clinging to the ratlines he endeavoured to climb up upon the top of the bulwarks as if in the hope of obtaining a last
glance at the departing object. His strength was not equal to the attempt, however, and he staggered back against the
saloon skylights, where he leaned panting and exhausted. His face was so livid that I expected him to become
unconscious, so lost no time in leading him down the companion, and stretching him upon one of the sofas in the cabin.
I then poured him out some brandy, which I held to his lips, and which had a wonderful effect upon him, bringing the
blood back into his white face and steadying his poor shaking limbs. He raised himself up upon his elbow, and looking
round to see that we were alone, he beckoned to me to come and sit beside him.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” he asked, still in the same subdued awesome tone so foreign to the nature of the man.

“No, I saw nothing.”

His head sank back again upon the cushions. “No, he wouldn’t without the glass,” he murmured. “He couldn’t. It was
the glass that showed her to me, and then the eyes of love — the eyes of love.

He lay quiet for a while, lost in thought apparently, and then raised himself up upon his elbow again, and asked for
some more brandy.

“You don’t think I am, do you, Doc?” he asked, as I was putting the bottle back into the after-locker. “Tell me now,
as man to man, do you think that I am mad?”

“I think you have something on your mind,” I answered, “which is exciting you and doing you a good deal of
harm.”

“Right there, lad!” he cried, his eyes sparkling from the effects of the brandy. “Plenty on my mind — plenty! But I
can work out the latitude and the longitude, and I can handle my sextant and manage my logarithms. You couldn’t prove
me mad in a court of law, could you, now?” It was curious to hear the man lying back and coolly arguing out the
question of his own sanity.

“Perhaps not,” I said; “but still I think you would be wise to get home as soon as you can, and settle down to a
quiet life for a while.”

“Get home, eh?” he muttered, with a sneer upon his face. “One word for me and two for yourself, lad. Settle down
with Flora — pretty little Flora. Are bad dreams signs of madness?”

“Sometimes,” I answered.

“What else? What would be the first symptoms?”

“Pains in the head, noises in the ears flashes before the eyes, delusions”——

“Ah! what about them?” he interrupted. “What would you call a delusion?”

“Seeing a thing which is not there is a delusion.”

“But she WAS there!” he groaned to himself. “She WAS there!” and rising, he unbolted the door and walked with slow
and uncertain steps to his own cabin, where I have no doubt that he will remain until tomorrow morning. His system
seems to have received a terrible shock, whatever it may have been that he imagined himself to have seen. The man
becomes a greater mystery every day, though I fear that the solution which he has himself suggested is the correct one,
and that his reason is affected. I do not think that a guilty conscience has anything to do with his behaviour. The
idea is a popular one among the officers, and, I believe, the crew; but I have seen nothing to support it. He has not
the air of a guilty man, but of one who has had terrible usage at the hands of fortune, and who should be regarded as a
martyr rather than a criminal.

The wind is veering round to the south to-night. God help us if it blocks that narrow pass which is our only road to
safety! Situated as we are on the edge of the main Arctic pack, or the “barrier” as it is called by the whalers, any
wind from the north has the effect of shredding out the ice around us and allowing our escape, while a wind from the
south blows up all the loose ice behind us and hems us in between two packs. God help us, I say again!

September 14th.— Sunday, and a day of rest. My fears have been confirmed, and the thin strip of blue water has
disappeared from the southward. Nothing but the great motionless ice fields around us, with their weird hummocks and
fantastic pinnacles. There is a deathly silence over their wide expanse which is horrible. No lapping of the waves now,
no cries of seagulls or straining of sails, but one deep universal silence in which the murmurs of the seamen, and the
creak of their boots upon the white shining deck, seem discordant and out of place. Our only visitor was an Arctic fox,
a rare animal upon the pack, though common enough upon the land. He did not come near the ship, however, but after
surveying us from a distance fled rapidly across the ice. This was curious conduct, as they generally know nothing of
man, and being of an inquisitive nature, become so familiar that they are easily captured. Incredible as it may seem,
even this little incident produced a bad effect upon the crew. “Yon puir beastie kens mair, ay, an’ sees mair nor you
nor me!” was the comment of one of the leading harpooners, and the others nodded their acquiescence. It is vain to
attempt to argue against such puerile superstition. They have made up their minds that there is a curse upon the ship,
and nothing will ever persuade them to the contrary.

The Captain remained in seclusion all day except for about half an hour in the afternoon, when he came out upon the
quarterdeck. I observed that he kept his eye fixed upon the spot where the vision of yesterday had appeared, and was
quite prepared for another outburst, but none such came. He did not seem to see me although I was standing close beside
him. Divine service was read as usual by the chief engineer. It is a curious thing that in whaling vessels the Church
of England Prayer-book is always employed, although there is never a member of that Church among either officers or
crew. Our men are all Roman Catholics or Presbyterians, the former predominating. Since a ritual is used which is
foreign to both, neither can complain that the other is preferred to them, and they listen with all attention and
devotion, so that the system has something to recommend it.

A glorious sunset, which made the great fields of ice look like a lake of blood. I have never seen a finer and at
the same time more weird effect. Wind is veering round. If it will blow twenty-four hours from the north all will yet
be well.

September 15th.— To-day is Flora’s birthday. Dear lass! it is well that she cannot see her boy, as she used to call
me, shut up among the ice fields with a crazy captain and a few weeks’ provisions. No doubt she scans the shipping list
in the Scotsman every morning to see if we are reported from Shetland. I have to set an example to the men and look
cheery and unconcerned; but God knows, my heart is very heavy at times.

The thermometer is at nineteen Fahrenheit today. There is but little wind, and what there is comes from an
unfavourable quarter. Captain is in an excellent humour; I think he imagines he has seen some other omen or vision,
poor fellow, during the night, for he came into my room early in the morning, and stooping down over my bunk,
whispered, “It wasn’t a delusion, Doc; it’s all right!” After breakfast he asked me to find out how much food was left,
which the second mate and I proceeded to do. It is even less than we had expected. Forward they have half a tank full
of biscuits, three barrels of salt meat, and a very limited supply of coffee beans and sugar. In the after-hold and
lockers there are a good many luxuries, such as tinned salmon, soups, haricot mutton, &c., but they will go a very
short way among a crew of fifty men. There are two barrels of flour in the store-room, and an unlimited supply of
tobacco. Altogether there is about enough to keep the men on half rations for eighteen or twenty days — certainly not
more. When we reported the state of things to the Captain, he ordered all hands to be piped, and addressed them from
the quarterdeck. I never saw him to better advantage. With his tall, well-knit figure, and dark animated face, he
seemed a man born to command, and he discussed the situation in a cool sailor-like way which showed that while
appreciating the danger he had an eye for every loophole of escape.

“My lads,” he said, “no doubt you think I brought you into this fix, if it is a fix, and maybe some of you feel
bitter against me on account of it. But you must remember that for many a season no ship that comes to the country has
brought in as much oil-money as the old Pole-Star, and every one of you has had his share of it. You can leave your
wives behind you in comfort while other poor fellows come back to find their lasses on the parish. If you have to thank
me for the one you have to thank me for the other, and we may call it quits. We’ve tried a bold venture before this and
succeeded, so now that we’ve tried one and failed we’ve no cause to cry out about it. If the worst comes to the worst,
we can make the land across the ice, and lay in a stock of seals which will keep us alive until the spring. It won’t
come to that, though, for you’ll see the Scotch coast again before three weeks are out. At present every man must go on
half rations, share and share alike, and no favour to any. Keep up your hearts and you’ll pull through this as you’ve
pulled through many a danger before.” These few simple words of his had a wonderful effect upon the crew. His former
unpopularity was forgotten, and the old harpooner whom I have already mentioned for his superstition, led off three
cheers, which were heartily joined in by all hands.

September 16th.— The wind has veered round to the north during the night, and the ice shows some symptoms of opening
out. The men are in a good humour in spite of the short allowance upon which they have been placed. Steam is kept up in
the engine-room, that there may be no delay should an opportunity for escape present itself. The Captain is in
exuberant spirits, though he still retains that wild “fey” expression which I have already remarked upon. This burst of
cheerfulness puzzles me more than his former gloom. I cannot understand it. I think I mentioned in an early part of
this journal that one of his oddities is that he never permits any person to enter his cabin, but insists upon making
his own bed, such as it is, and performing every other office for himself. To my surprise he handed me the key today
and requested me to go down there and take the time by his chronometer while he measured the altitude of the sun at
noon. It is a bare little room, containing a washing-stand and a few books, but little else in the way of luxury,
except some pictures upon the walls. The majority of these are small cheap oleographs, but there was one water-colour
sketch of the head of a young lady which arrested my attention. It was evidently a portrait, and not one of those fancy
types of female beauty which sailors particularly affect. No artist could have evolved from his own mind such a curious
mixture of character and weakness. The languid, dreamy eyes, with their drooping lashes, and the broad, low brow,
unruffled by thought or care, were in strong contrast with the clean-cut, prominent jaw, and the resolute set of the
lower lip. Underneath it in one of the corners was written, “M. B., aet. 19.” That any one in the short space of
nineteen years of existence could develop such strength of will as was stamped upon her face seemed to me at the time
to be well-nigh incredible. She must have been an extraordinary woman. Her features have thrown such a glamour over me
that, though I had but a fleeting glance at them, I could, were I a draughtsman, reproduce them line for line upon this
page of the journal. I wonder what part she has played in our Captain’s life. He has hung her picture at the end of his
berth, so that his eyes continually rest upon it. Were he a less reserved man I should make some remark upon the
subject. Of the other things in his cabin there was nothing worthy of mention — uniform coats, a camp-stool, small
looking-glass, tobacco-box, and numerous pipes, including an oriental hookah — which, by-the-bye, gives some colour to
Mr. Milne’s story about his participation in the war, though the connection may seem rather a distant one.

11.20 P.M.— Captain just gone to bed after a long and interesting conversation on general topics. When he chooses he
can be a most fascinating companion, being remarkably well-read, and having the power of expressing his opinion
forcibly without appearing to be dogmatic. I hate to have my intellectual toes trod upon. He spoke about the nature of
the soul, and sketched out the views of Aristotle and Plato upon the subject in a masterly manner. He seems to have a
leaning for metempsychosis and the doctrines of Pythagoras. In discussing them we touched upon modern spiritualism, and
I made some joking allusion to the impostures of Slade, upon which, to my surprise, he warned me most impressively
against confusing the innocent with the guilty, and argued that it would be as logical to brand Christianity as an
error because Judas, who professed that religion, was a villain. He shortly afterwards bade me good-night and retired
to his room.

The wind is freshening up, and blows steadily from the north. The nights are as dark now as they are in England. I
hope tomorrow may set us free from our frozen fetters.

September 17th.— The Bogie again. Thank Heaven that I have strong nerves! The superstition of these poor fellows,
and the circumstantial accounts which they give, with the utmost earnestness and self-conviction, would horrify any man
not accustomed to their ways. There are many versions of the matter, but the sum-total of them all is that something
uncanny has been flitting round the ship all night, and that Sandie M’Donald of Peterhead and “lang” Peter Williamson
of Shetland saw it, as also did Mr. Milne on the bridge — so, having three witnesses, they can make a better case of it
than the second mate did. I spoke to Milne after breakfast, and told him that he should be above such nonsense, and
that as an officer he ought to set the men a better example. He shook his weatherbeaten head ominously, but answered
with characteristic caution, “Mebbe aye, mebbe na, Doctor,” he said; “I didna ca’ it a ghaist. I canna’ say I preen my
faith in sea-bogles an’ the like, though there’s a mony as claims to ha’ seen a’ that and waur. I’m no easy feared, but
maybe your ain bluid would run a bit cauld, mun, if instead o’ speerin’ aboot it in daylicht ye were wi’ me last night,
an’ seed an awfu’ like shape, white an’ gruesome, whiles here, whiles there, an’ it greetin’ and ca’ing in the darkness
like a bit lambie that hae lost its mither. Ye would na’ be sae ready to put it a’ doon to auld wives’ clavers then,
I’m thinkin’.” I saw it was hopeless to reason with him, so contented myself with begging him as a personal favour to
call me up the next time the spectre appeared — a request to which he acceded with many ejaculations expressive of his
hopes that such an opportunity might never arise.

As I had hoped, the white desert behind us has become broken by many thin streaks of water which intersect it in all
directions. Our latitude today was 80 degrees 52’ N., which shows that there is a strong southerly drift upon the pack.
Should the wind continue favourable it will break up as rapidly as it formed. At present we can do nothing but smoke
and wait and hope for the best. I am rapidly becoming a fatalist. When dealing with such uncertain factors as wind and
ice a man can be nothing else. Perhaps it was the wind and sand of the Arabian deserts which gave the minds of the
original followers of Mahomet their tendency to bow to kismet.

These spectral alarms have a very bad effect upon the Captain. I feared that it might excite his sensitive mind, and
endeavoured to conceal the absurd story from him, but unfortunately he overheard one of the men making an allusion to
it, and insisted upon being informed about it. As I had expected, it brought out all his latent lunacy in an
exaggerated form. I can hardly believe that this is the same man who discoursed philosophy last night with the most
critical acumen and coolest judgment. He is pacing backwards and forwards upon the quarterdeck like a caged tiger,
stopping now and again to throw out his hands with a yearning gesture, and stare impatiently out over the ice. He keeps
up a continual mutter to himself, and once he called out, “But a little time, love — but a little time!” Poor fellow,
it is sad to see a gallant seaman and accomplished gentleman reduced to such a pass, and to think that imagination and
delusion can cow a mind to which real danger was but the salt of life. Was ever a man in such a position as I, between
a demented captain and a ghost-seeing mate? I sometimes think I am the only really sane man aboard the vessel — except
perhaps the second engineer, who is a kind of ruminant, and would care nothing for all the fiends in the Red Sea so
long as they would leave him alone and not disarrange his tools.

The ice is still opening rapidly, and there is every probability of our being able to make a start tomorrow morning.
They will think I am inventing when I tell them at home all the strange things that have befallen me.

12 P.M.— I have been a good deal startled, though I feel steadier now, thanks to a stiff glass of brandy. I am
hardly myself yet, however, as this handwriting will testify. The fact is, that I have gone through a very strange
experience, and am beginning to doubt whether I was justified in branding every one on board as madmen because they
professed to have seen things which did not seem reasonable to my understanding. Pshaw! I am a fool to let such a
trifle unnerve me; and yet, coming as it does after all these alarms, it has an additional significance, for I cannot
doubt either Mr. Manson’s story or that of the mate, now that I have experienced that which I used formerly to scoff
at.

After all it was nothing very alarming — a mere sound, and that was all. I cannot expect that any one reading this,
if any one ever should read it, will sympathise with my feelings, or realise the effect which it produced upon me at
the time. Supper was over, and I had gone on deck to have a quiet pipe before turning in. The night was very dark — so
dark that, standing under the quarter-boat, I was unable to see the officer upon the bridge. I think I have already
mentioned the extraordinary silence which prevails in these frozen seas. In other parts of the world, be they ever so
barren, there is some slight vibration of the air — some faint hum, be it from the distant haunts of men, or from the
leaves of the trees, or the wings of the birds, or even the faint rustle of the grass that covers the ground. One may
not actively perceive the sound, and yet if it were withdrawn it would be missed. It is only here in these Arctic seas
that stark, unfathomable stillness obtrudes itself upon you in all its gruesome reality. You find your tympanum
straining to catch some little murmur, and dwelling eagerly upon every accidental sound within the vessel. In this
state I was leaning against the bulwarks when there arose from the ice almost directly underneath me a cry, sharp and
shrill, upon the silent air of the night, beginning, as it seemed to me, at a note such as prima donna never reached,
and mounting from that ever higher and higher until it culminated in a long wail of agony, which might have been the
last cry of a lost soul. The ghastly scream is still ringing in my ears. Grief, unutterable grief, seemed to be
expressed in it, and a great longing, and yet through it all there was an occasional wild note of exultation. It
shrilled out from close beside me, and yet as I glared into the darkness I could discern nothing. I waited some little
time, but without hearing any repetition of the sound, so I came below, more shaken than I have ever been in my life
before. As I came down the companion I met Mr. Milne coming up to relieve the watch. “Weel, Doctor,” he said, “maybe
that’s auld wives’ clavers tae? Did ye no hear it skirling? Maybe that’s a supersteetion? What d’ye think o’t noo?” I
was obliged to apologise to the honest fellow, and acknowledge that I was as puzzled by it as he was. Perhaps tomorrow
things may look different. At present I dare hardly write all that I think. Reading it again in days to come, when I
have shaken off all these associations, I should despise myself for having been so weak.

September 18th.— Passed a restless and uneasy night, still haunted by that strange sound. The Captain does not look
as if he had had much repose either, for his face is haggard and his eyes bloodshot. I have not told him of my
adventure of last night, nor shall I. He is already restless and excited, standing up, sitting down, and apparently
utterly unable to keep still.

A fine lead appeared in the pack this morning, as I had expected, and we were able to cast off our ice-anchor, and
steam about twelve miles in a west-sou’-westerly direction. We were then brought to a halt by a great floe as massive
as any which we have left behind us. It bars our progress completely, so we can do nothing but anchor again and wait
until it breaks up, which it will probably do within twenty-four hours, if the wind holds. Several bladder-nosed seals
were seen swimming in the water, and one was shot, an immense creature more than eleven feet long. They are fierce,
pugnacious animals, and are said to be more than a match for a bear. Fortunately they are slow and clumsy in their
movements, so that there is little danger in attacking them upon the ice.

The Captain evidently does not think we have seen the last of our troubles, though why he should take a gloomy view
of the situation is more than I can fathom, since every one else on board considers that we have had a miraculous
escape, and are sure now to reach the open sea.

“I suppose you think it’s all right now, Doctor?” he said, as we sat together after dinner.

“I hope so,” I answered.

“We mustn’t be too sure — and yet no doubt you are right. We’ll all be in the arms of our own true loves before
long, lad, won’t we? But we mustn’t be too sure — we mustn’t be too sure.”

He sat silent a little, swinging his leg thoughtfully backwards and forwards. “Look here,” he continued; “it’s a
dangerous place this, even at its best — a treacherous, dangerous place. I have known men cut off very suddenly in a
land like this. A slip would do it sometimes — a single slip, and down you go through a crack, and only a bubble on the
green water to show where it was that you sank. It’s a queer thing,” he continued with a nervous laugh, “but all the
years I’ve been in this country I never once thought of making a will — not that I have anything to leave in
particular, but still when a man is exposed to danger he should have everything arranged and ready — don’t you think
so?”

“Certainly,” I answered, wondering what on earth he was driving at.

“He feels better for knowing it’s all settled,” he went on. “Now if anything should ever befall me, I hope that you
will look after things for me. There is very little in the cabin, but such as it is I should like it to be sold, and
the money divided in the same proportion as the oil-money among the crew. The chronometer I wish you to keep yourself
as some slight remembrance of our voyage. Of course all this is a mere precaution, but I thought I would take the
opportunity of speaking to you about it. I suppose I might rely upon you if there were any necessity?”

“Most assuredly,” I answered; “and since you are taking this step, I may as well”——

“You! you!” he interrupted. “YOU’RE all right. What the devil is the matter with YOU? There, I didn’t mean to be
peppery, but I don’t like to hear a young fellow, that has hardly began life, speculating about death. Go up on deck
and get some fresh air into your lungs instead of talking nonsense in the cabin, and encouraging me to do the
same.”

The more I think of this conversation of ours the less do I like it. Why should the man be settling his affairs at
the very time when we seem to be emerging from all danger? There must be some method in his madness. Can it be that he
contemplates suicide? I remember that upon one occasion he spoke in a deeply reverent manner of the heinousness of the
crime of self-destruction. I shall keep my eye upon him, however, and though I cannot obtrude upon the privacy of his
cabin, I shall at least make a point of remaining on deck as long as he stays up.

Mr. Milne pooh-poohs my fears, and says it is only the “skipper’s little way.” He himself takes a very rosy view of
the situation. According to him we shall be out of the ice by the day after tomorrow, pass Jan Meyen two days after
that, and sight Shetland in little more than a week. I hope he may not be too sanguine. His opinion may be fairly
balanced against the gloomy precautions of the Captain, for he is an old and experienced seaman, and weighs his words
well before uttering them.

The long-impending catastrophe has come at last. I hardly know what to write about it. The Captain is gone. He may
come back to us again alive, but I fear me — I fear me. It is now seven o’clock of the morning of the 19th of
September. I have spent the whole night traversing the great ice-floe in front of us with a party of seamen in the hope
of coming upon some trace of him, but in vain. I shall try to give some account of the circumstances which attended
upon his disappearance. Should any one ever chance to read the words which I put down, I trust they will remember that
I do not write from conjecture or from hearsay, but that I, a sane and educated man, am describing accurately what
actually occurred before my very eyes. My inferences are my own, but I shall be answerable for the facts.

The Captain remained in excellent spirits after the conversation which I have recorded. He appeared to be nervous
and impatient, however, frequently changing his position, and moving his limbs in an aimless choreic way which is
characteristic of him at times. In a quarter of an hour he went upon deck seven times, only to descend after a few
hurried paces. I followed him each time, for there was something about his face which confirmed my resolution of not
letting him out of my sight. He seemed to observe the effect which his movements had produced, for he endeavoured by an
over-done hilarity, laughing boisterously at the very smallest of jokes, to quiet my apprehensions.

After supper he went on to the poop once more, and I with him. The night was dark and very still, save for the
melancholy soughing of the wind among the spars. A thick cloud was coming up from the northwest, and the ragged
tentacles which it threw out in front of it were drifting across the face of the moon, which only shone now and again
through a rift in the wrack. The Captain paced rapidly backwards and forwards, and then seeing me still dogging him, he
came across and hinted that he thought I should be better below — which, I need hardly say, had the effect of
strengthening my resolution to remain on deck.

I think he forgot about my presence after this, for he stood silently leaning over the taffrail, and peering out
across the great desert of snow, part of which lay in shadow, while part glittered mistily in the moonlight. Several
times I could see by his movements that he was referring to his watch, and once he muttered a short sentence, of which
I could only catch the one word “ready.” I confess to having felt an eerie feeling creeping over me as I watched the
loom of his tall figure through the darkness, and noted how completely he fulfilled the idea of a man who is keeping a
tryst. A tryst with whom? Some vague perception began to dawn upon me as I pieced one fact with another, but I was
utterly unprepared for the sequel.

By the sudden intensity of his attitude I felt that he saw something. I crept up behind him. He was staring with an
eager questioning gaze at what seemed to be a wreath of mist, blown swiftly in a line with the ship. It was a dim,
nebulous body, devoid of shape, sometimes more, sometimes less apparent, as the light fell on it. The moon was dimmed
in its brilliancy at the moment by a canopy of thinnest cloud, like the coating of an anemone.

“Coming, lass, coming,” cried the skipper, in a voice of unfathomable tenderness and compassion, like one who
soothes a beloved one by some favour long looked for, and as pleasant to bestow as to receive.

What followed happened in an instant. I had no power to interfere.

He gave one spring to the top of the bulwarks, and another which took him on to the ice, almost to the feet of the
pale misty figure. He held out his hands as if to clasp it, and so ran into the darkness with outstretched arms and
loving words. I still stood rigid and motionless, straining my eyes after his retreating form, until his voice died
away in the distance. I never thought to see him again, but at that moment the moon shone out brilliantly through a
chink in the cloudy heaven, and illuminated the great field of ice. Then I saw his dark figure already a very long way
off, running with prodigious speed across the frozen plain. That was the last glimpse which we caught of him — perhaps
the last we ever shall. A party was organised to follow him, and I accompanied them, but the men’s hearts were not in
the work, and nothing was found. Another will be formed within a few hours. I can hardly believe I have not been
dreaming, or suffering from some hideous nightmare, as I write these things down.

7.30 P.M.— Just returned dead beat and utterly tired out from a second unsuccessful search for the Captain. The floe
is of enormous extent, for though we have traversed at least twenty miles of its surface, there has been no sign of its
coming to an end. The frost has been so severe of late that the overlying snow is frozen as hard as granite, otherwise
we might have had the footsteps to guide us. The crew are anxious that we should cast off and steam round the floe and
so to the southward, for the ice has opened up during the night, and the sea is visible upon the horizon. They argue
that Captain Craigie is certainly dead, and that we are all risking our lives to no purpose by remaining when we have
an opportunity of escape. Mr. Milne and I have had the greatest difficulty in persuading them to wait until tomorrow
night, and have been compelled to promise that we will not under any circumstances delay our departure longer than
that. We propose therefore to take a few hours’ sleep, and then to start upon a final search.

September 20th, evening.— I crossed the ice this morning with a party of men exploring the southern part of the
floe, while Mr. Milne went off in a northerly direction. We pushed on for ten or twelve miles without seeing a trace of
any living thing except a single bird, which fluttered a great way over our heads, and which by its flight I should
judge to have been a falcon. The southern extremity of the ice field tapered away into a long narrow spit which
projected out into the sea. When we came to the base of this promontory, the men halted, but I begged them to continue
to the extreme end of it, that we might have the satisfaction of knowing that no possible chance had been
neglected.

We had hardly gone a hundred yards before M’Donald of Peterhead cried out that he saw something in front of us, and
began to run. We all got a glimpse of it and ran too. At first it was only a vague darkness against the white ice, but
as we raced along together it took the shape of a man, and eventually of the man of whom we were in search. He was
lying face downwards upon a frozen bank. Many little crystals of ice and feathers of snow had drifted on to him as he
lay, and sparkled upon his dark seaman’s jacket. As we came up some wandering puff of wind caught these tiny flakes in
its vortex, and they whirled up into the air, partially descended again, and then, caught once more in the current,
sped rapidly away in the direction of the sea. To my eyes it seemed but a snow-drift, but many of my companions averred
that it started up in the shape of a woman, stooped over the corpse and kissed it, and then hurried away across the
floe. I have learned never to ridicule any man’s opinion, however strange it may seem. Sure it is that Captain Nicholas
Craigie had met with no painful end, for there was a bright smile upon his blue pinched features, and his hands were
still outstretched as though grasping at the strange visitor which had summoned him away into the dim world that lies
beyond the grave.

We buried him the same afternoon with the ship’s ensign around him, and a thirty-two pound shot at his feet. I read
the burial service, while the rough sailors wept like children, for there were many who owed much to his kind heart,
and who showed now the affection which his strange ways had repelled during his lifetime. He went off the grating with
a dull, sullen splash, and as I looked into the green water I saw him go down, down, down until he was but a little
flickering patch of white hanging upon the outskirts of eternal darkness. Then even that faded away, and he was gone.
There he shall lie, with his secret and his sorrows and his mystery all still buried in his breast, until that great
day when the sea shall give up its dead, and Nicholas Craigie come out from among the ice with the smile upon his face,
and his stiffened arms outstretched in greeting. I pray that his lot may be a happier one in that life than it has been
in this.

I shall not continue my journal. Our road to home lies plain and clear before us, and the great ice field will soon
be but a remembrance of the past. It will be some time before I get over the shock produced by recent events. When I
began this record of our voyage I little thought of how I should be compelled to finish it. I am writing these final
words in the lonely cabin, still starting at times and fancying I hear the quick nervous step of the dead man upon the
deck above me. I entered his cabin to-night, as was my duty, to make a list of his effects in order that they might be
entered in the official log. All was as it had been upon my previous visit, save that the picture which I have
described as having hung at the end of his bed had been cut out of its frame, as with a knife, and was gone. With this
last link in a strange chain of evidence I close my diary of the voyage of the Pole-Star.

[NOTE by Dr. John M’Alister Ray, senior.— I have read over the strange events connected with the death of the
Captain of the Pole-Star, as narrated in the journal of my son. That everything occurred exactly as he describes it I
have the fullest confidence, and, indeed, the most positive certainty, for I know him to be a strong-nerved and
unimaginative man, with the strictest regard for veracity. Still, the story is, on the face of it, so vague and so
improbable, that I was long opposed to its publication. Within the last few days, however, I have had independent
testimony upon the subject which throws a new light upon it. I had run down to Edinburgh to attend a meeting of the
British Medical Association, when I chanced to come across Dr. P——, an old college chum of mine, now practising at
Saltash, in Devonshire. Upon my telling him of this experience of my son’s, he declared to me that he was familiar with
the man, and proceeded, to my no small surprise, to give me a description of him, which tallied remarkably well with
that given in the journal, except that he depicted him as a younger man. According to his account, he had been engaged
to a young lady of singular beauty residing upon the Cornish coast. During his absence at sea his betrothed had died
under circumstances of peculiar horror.]

F. Habakuk Jephson’s Statement

In the month of December in the year 1873, the British ship Dei Gratia steered into Gibraltar,
having in tow the derelict brigantine Marie Celeste, which had been picked up in latitude 38 degrees 40’, longitude 17
degrees 15’ W. There were several circumstances in connection with the condition and appearance of this abandoned
vessel which excited considerable comment at the time, and aroused a curiosity which has never been satisfied. What
these circumstances were was summed up in an able article which appeared in the Gibraltar Gazette. The curious can find
it in the issue for January 4, 1874, unless my memory deceives me. For the benefit of those, however, who may be unable
to refer to the paper in question, I shall subjoin a few extracts which touch upon the leading features of the
case.

“We have ourselves,” says the anonymous writer in the Gazette, “been over the derelict Marie Celeste, and have
closel questioned the officers of the Dei Gratia on every point which might throw light on the affair. They are of
opinion that she had been abandoned several days, or perhaps weeks, before being picked up. The official log, which was
found in the cabin, states that the vessel sailed from Boston to Lisbon, starting upon October 16. It is, however, most
imperfectly kept, and affords little information. There is no reference to rough weather, and, indeed, the state of the
vessel’s paint and rigging excludes the idea that she was abandoned for any such reason. She is perfectly watertight.
No signs of a struggle or of violence are to be detected, and there is absolutely nothing to account for the
disappearance of the crew. There are several indications that a lady was present on board, a sewing-machine being found
in the cabin and some articles of female attire. These probably belonged to the captain’s wife, who is mentioned in the
log as having accompanied her husband. As an instance of the mildness of the weather, it may be remarked that a bobbin
of silk was found standing upon the sewing-machine, though the least roll of the vessel would have precipitated it to
the floor. The boats were intact and slung upon the davits; and the cargo, consisting of tallow and American clocks,
was untouched. An old-fashioned sword of curious workmanship was discovered among some lumber in the forecastle, and
this weapon is said to exhibit a longitudinal striation on the steel, as if it had been recently wiped. It has been
placed in the hands of the police, and submitted to Dr. Monaghan, the analyst, for inspection. The result of his
examination has not yet been published. We may remark, in conclusion, that Captain Dalton, of the Dei Gratia, an able
and intelligent seaman, is of opinion that the Marie Celeste may have been abandoned a considerable distance from the
spot at which she was picked up, since a powerful current runs up in that latitude from the African coast. He confesses
his inability, however, to advance any hypothesis which can reconcile all the facts of the case. In the utter absence
of a clue or grain of evidence, it is to be feared that the fate of the crew of the Marie Celeste will be added to
those numerous mysteries of the deep which will never be solved until the great day when the sea shall give up its
dead. If crime has been committed, as is much to be suspected, there is little hope of bringing the perpetrators to
justice.”

I shall supplement this extract from the Gibraltar Gazette by quoting a telegram from Boston, which went the round
of the English papers, and represented the total amount of information which had been collected about the Marie
Celeste. “She was,” it said, “a brigantine of 170 tons burden, and belonged to White, Russell & White, wine
importers, of this city. Captain J. W. Tibbs was an old servant of the firm, and was a man of known ability and tried
probity. He was accompanied by his wife, aged thirty-one, and their youngest child, five years old. The crew consisted
of seven hands, including two coloured seamen, and a boy. There were three passengers, one of whom was the well-known
Brooklyn specialist on consumption, Dr. Habakuk Jephson, who was a distinguished advocate for Abolition in the early
days of the movement, and whose pamphlet, entitled “Where is thy Brother?” exercised a strong influence on public
opinion before the war. The other passengers were Mr. J. Harton, a writer in the employ of the firm, and Mr. Septimius
Goring, a half-caste gentleman, from New Orleans. All investigations have failed to throw any light upon the fate of
these fourteen human beings. The loss of Dr. Jephson will be felt both in political and scientific circles.”

I have here epitomised, for the benefit of the public, all that has been hitherto known concerning the Marie Celeste
and her crew, for the past ten years have not in any way helped to elucidate the mystery. I have now taken up my pen
with the intention of telling all that I know of the ill-fated voyage. I consider that it is a duty which I owe to
society, for symptoms which I am familiar with in others lead me to believe that before many months my tongue and hand
may be alike incapable of conveying information. Let me remark, as a preface to my narrative, that I am Joseph Habakuk
Jephson, Doctor of Medicine of the University of Harvard, and ex-Consulting Physician of the Samaritan Hospital of
Brooklyn.

Many will doubtless wonder why I have not proclaimed myself before, and why I have suffered so many conjectures and
surmises to pass unchallenged. Could the ends of justice have been served in any way by my revealing the facts in my
possession I should unhesitatingly have done so. It seemed to me, however, that there was no possibility of such a
result; and when I attempted, after the occurrence, to state my case to an English official, I was met with such
offensive incredulity that I determined never again to expose myself to the chance of such an indignity. I can excuse
the discourtesy of the Liverpool magistrate, however, when I reflect upon the treatment which I received at the hands
of my own relatives, who, though they knew my unimpeachable character, listened to my statement with an indulgent smile
as if humouring the delusion of a monomaniac. This slur upon my veracity led to a quarrel between myself and John
Vanburger, the brother of my wife, and confirmed me in my resolution to let the matter sink into oblivion — a
determination which I have only altered through my son’s solicitations. In order to make my narrative intelligible, I
must run lightly over one or two incidents in my former life which throw light upon subsequent events.

My father, William K. Jephson, was a preacher of the sect called Plymouth Brethren, and was one of the most
respected citizens of Lowell. Like most of the other Puritans of New England, he was a determined opponent to slavery,
and it was from his lips that I received those lessons which tinged every action of my life. While I was studying
medicine at Harvard University, I had already made a mark as an advanced Abolitionist; and when, after taking my
degree, I bought a third share of the practice of Dr. Willis, of Brooklyn, I managed, in spite of my professional
duties, to devote a considerable time to the cause which I had at heart, my pamphlet, “Where is thy Brother?”
(Swarburgh, Lister & Co., 1859) attracting considerable attention.

When the war broke out I left Brooklyn and accompanied the 113th New York Regiment through the campaign. I was
present at the second battle of Bull’s Run and at the battle of Gettysburg. Finally, I was severely wounded at
Antietam, and would probably have perished on the field had it not been for the kindness of a gentleman named Murray,
who had me carried to his house and provided me with every comfort. Thanks to his charity, and to the nursing which I
received from his black domestics, I was soon able to get about the plantation with the help of a stick. It was during
this period of convalescence that an incident occurred which is closely connected with my story.

Among the most assiduous of the negresses who had watched my couch during my illness there was one old crone who
appeared to exert considerable authority over the others. She was exceedingly attentive to me, and I gathered from the
few words that passed between us that she had heard of me, and that she was grateful to me for championing her
oppressed race.

One day as I was sitting alone in the verandah, basking in the sun, and debating whether I should rejoin Grant’s
army, I was surprised to see this old creature hobbling towards me. After looking cautiously around to see that we were
alone, she fumbled in the front of her dress and produced a small chamois leather bag which was hung round her neck by
a white cord.

“Massa,” she said, bending down and croaking the words into my ear, “me die soon. Me very old woman. Not stay long
on Massa Murray’s plantation.”

“You may live a long time yet, Martha,” I answered. “You know I am a doctor. If you feel ill let me know about it,
and I will try to cure you.”

“No wish to live — wish to die. I’m gwine to join the heavenly host.” Here she relapsed into one of those
half-heathenish rhapsodies in which negroes indulge. “But, massa, me have one thing must leave behind me when I go. No
able to take it with me across the Jordan. That one thing very precious, more precious and more holy than all thing
else in the world. Me, a poor old black woman, have this because my people, very great people, ‘spose they was back in
the old country. But you cannot understand this same as black folk could. My fader give it me, and his fader give it
him, but now who shall I give it to? Poor Martha hab no child, no relation, nobody. All round I see black man very bad
man. Black woman very stupid woman. Nobody worthy of the stone. And so I say, Here is Massa Jephson who write books and
fight for coloured folk — he must be good man, and he shall have it though he is white man, and nebber can know what it
mean or where it came from.” Here the old woman fumbled in the chamois leather bag and pulled out a flattish black
stone with a hole through the middle of it. “Here, take it,” she said, pressing it into my hand; “take it. No harm
nebber come from anything good. Keep it safe — nebber lose it!” and with a warning gesture the old crone hobbled away
in the same cautious way as she had come, looking from side to side to see if we had been observed.

I was more amused than impressed by the old woman’s earnestness, and was only prevented from laughing during her
oration by the fear of hurting her feelings. When she was gone I took a good look at the stone which she had given me.
It was intensely black, of extreme hardness, and oval in shape — just such a flat stone as one would pick up on the
seashore if one wished to throw a long way. It was about three inches long, and an inch and a half broad at the middle,
but rounded off at the extremities. The most curious part about it were several well-marked ridges which ran in
semicircles over its surface, and gave it exactly the appearance of a human ear. Altogether I was rather interested in
my new possession, and determined to submit it, as a geological specimen, to my friend Professor Shroeder of the New
York Institute, upon the earliest opportunity. In the meantime I thrust it into my pocket, and rising from my chair
started off for a short stroll in the shrubbery, dismissing the incident from my mind.

As my wound had nearly healed by this time, I took my leave of Mr. Murray shortly afterwards. The Union armies were
everywhere victorious and converging on Richmond, so that my assistance seemed unnecessary, and I returned to Brooklyn.
There I resumed my practice, and married the second daughter of Josiah Vanburger, the well-known wood engraver. In the
course of a few years I built up a good connection and acquired considerable reputation in the treatment of pulmonary
complaints. I still kept the old black stone in my pocket, and frequently told the story of the dramatic way in which I
had become possessed of it. I also kept my resolution of showing it to Professor Shroeder, who was much interested both
by the anecdote and the specimen. He pronounced it to be a piece of meteoric stone, and drew my attention to the fact
that its resemblance to an ear was not accidental, but that it was most carefully worked into that shape. A dozen
little anatomical points showed that the worker had been as accurate as he was skilful. “I should not wonder,” said the
Professor, “if it were broken off from some larger statue, though how such hard material could be so perfectly worked
is more than I can understand. If there is a statue to correspond I should like to see it!” So I thought at the time,
but I have changed my opinion since.

The next seven or eight years of my life were quiet and uneventful.

Summer followed spring, and spring followed winter, without any variation in my duties. As the practice increased I
admitted J. S. Jackson as partner, he to have one-fourth of the profits. The continued strain had told upon my
constitution, however, and I became at last so unwell that my wife insisted upon my consulting Dr. Kavanagh Smith, who
was my colleague at the Samaritan Hospital.

That gentleman examined me, and pronounced the apex of my left lung to be in a state of consolidation, recommending
me at the same time to go through a course of medical treatment and to take a long sea-voyage.

My own disposition, which is naturally restless, predisposed me strongly in favour of the latter piece of advice,
and the matter was clinched by my meeting young Russell, of the firm of White, Russell & White, who offered me a
passage in one of his father’s ships, the Marie Celeste, which was just starting from Boston. “She is a snug little
ship,” he said, “and Tibbs, the captain, is an excellent fellow. There is nothing like a sailing ship for an invalid.”
I was very much of the same opinion myself, so I closed with the offer on the spot.

My original plan was that my wife should accompany me on my travels. She has always been a very poor sailor,
however, and there were strong family reasons against her exposing herself to any risk at the time, so we determined
that she should remain at home. I am not a religious or an effusive man; but oh, thank God for that! As to leaving my
practice, I was easily reconciled to it, as Jackson, my partner, was a reliable and hard-working man.

I arrived in Boston on October 12, 1873, and proceeded immediately to the office of the firm in order to thank them
for their courtesy. As I was sitting in the counting-house waiting until they should be at liberty to see me, the words
Marie Celeste suddenly attracted my attention. I looked round and saw a very tall, gaunt man, who was leaning across
the polished mahogany counter asking some questions of the clerk at the other side. His face was turned half towards
me, and I could see that he had a strong dash of negro blood in him, being probably a quadroon or even nearer akin to
the black. His curved aquiline nose and straight lank hair showed the white strain; but the dark restless eye, sensuous
mouth, and gleaming teeth all told of his African origin. His complexion was of a sickly, unhealthy yellow, and as his
face was deeply pitted with small-pox, the general impression was so unfavourable as to be almost revolting. When he
spoke, however, it was in a soft, melodious voice, and in well-chosen words, and he was evidently a man of some
education.

“I wished to ask a few questions about the Marie Celeste,” he repeated, leaning across to the clerk. “She sails the
day after tomorrow, does she not?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young clerk, awed into unusual politeness by the glimmer of a large diamond in the stranger’s
shirt front.

“Where is she bound for?”

“Lisbon.”

“How many of a crew?”

“Seven, sir.”

“Passengers?”

“Yes, two. One of our young gentlemen, and a doctor from New York.”

“No gentleman from the South?” asked the stranger eagerly.

“No, none, sir.”

“Is there room for another passenger?”

“Accommodation for three more,” answered the clerk.

“I’ll go,” said the quadroon decisively; “I’ll go, I’ll engage my passage at once. Put it down, will you — Mr.
Septimius Goring, of New Orleans.”

The clerk filled up a form and handed it over to the stranger, pointing to a blank space at the bottom. As Mr.
Goring stooped over to sign it I was horrified to observe that the fingers of his right hand had been lopped off, and
that he was holding the pen between his thumb and the palm. I have seen thousands slain in battle, and assisted at
every conceivable surgical operation, but I cannot recall any sight which gave me such a thrill of disgust as that
great brown sponge-like hand with the single member protruding from it. He used it skilfully enough, however, for,
dashing off his signature, he nodded to the clerk and strolled out of the office just as Mr. White sent out word that
he was ready to receive me.

I went down to the Marie Celeste that evening, and looked over my berth, which was extremely comfortable considering
the small size of the vessel. Mr. Goring, whom I had seen in the morning, was to have the one next mine. Opposite was
the captain’s cabin and a small berth for Mr. John Harton, a gentleman who was going out in the interests of the firm.
These little rooms were arranged on each side of the passage which led from the main-deck to the saloon. The latter was
a comfortable room, the panelling tastefully done in oak and mahogany, with a rich Brussels carpet and luxurious
settees. I was very much pleased with the accommodation, and also with Tibbs the captain, a bluff, sailor-like fellow,
with a loud voice and hearty manner, who welcomed me to the ship with effusion, and insisted upon our splitting a
bottle of wine in his cabin. He told me that he intended to take his wife and youngest child with him on the voyage,
and that he hoped with good luck to make Lisbon in three weeks. We had a pleasant chat and parted the best of friends,
he warning me to make the last of my preparations next morning, as he intended to make a start by the midday tide,
having now shipped all his cargo. I went back to my hotel, where I found a letter from my wife awaiting me, and, after
a refreshing night’s sleep, returned to the boat in the morning. From this point I am able to quote from the journal
which I kept in order to vary the monotony of the long sea-voyage. If it is somewhat bald in places I can at least rely
upon its accuracy in details, as it was written conscientiously from day to day.

October 16.— Cast off our warps at half-past two and were towed out into the bay, where the tug left us, and with
all sail set we bowled along at about nine knots an hour. I stood upon the poop watching the low land of America
sinking gradually upon the horizon until the evening haze hid it from my sight. A single red light, however, continued
to blaze balefully behind us, throwing a long track like a trail of blood upon the water, and it is still visible as I
write, though reduced to a mere speck. The Captain is in a bad humour, for two of his hands disappointed him at the
last moment, and he was compelled to ship a couple of negroes who happened to be on the quay. The missing men were
steady, reliable fellows, who had been with him several voyages, and their non-appearance puzzled as well as irritated
him. Where a crew of seven men have to work a fair-sized ship the loss of two experienced seamen is a serious one, for
though the negroes may take a spell at the wheel or swab the decks, they are of little or no use in rough weather. Our
cook is also a black man, and Mr. Septimius Goring has a little darkie servant, so that we are rather a piebald
community. The accountant, John Harton, promises to be an acquisition, for he is a cheery, amusing young fellow.
Strange how little wealth has to do with happiness! He has all the world before him and is seeking his fortune in a far
land, yet he is as transparently happy as a man can be. Goring is rich, if I am not mistaken, and so am I; but I know
that I have a lung, and Goring has some deeper trouble still, to judge by his features. How poorly do we both contrast
with the careless, penniless clerk!

October 17.— Mrs. Tibbs appeared upon deck for the first time this morning — a cheerful, energetic woman, with a
dear little child just able to walk and prattle. Young Harton pounced on it at once, and carried it away to his cabin,
where no doubt he will lay the seeds of future dyspepsia in the child’s stomach. Thus medicine doth make cynics of us
all! The weather is still all that could be desired, with a fine fresh breeze from the west-sou’-west. The vessel goes
so steadily that you would hardly know that she was moving were it not for the creaking of the cordage, the bellying of
the sails, and the long white furrow in our wake. Walked the quarter-deck all morning with the Captain, and I think the
keen fresh air has already done my breathing good, for the exercise did not fatigue me in any way. Tibbs is a
remarkably intelligent man, and we had an interesting argument about Maury’s observations on ocean currents, which we
terminated by going down into his cabin to consult the original work. There we found Goring, rather to the Captain’s
surprise, as it is not usual for passengers to enter that sanctum unless specially invited. He apologised for his
intrusion, however, pleading his ignorance of the usages of ship life; and the good-natured sailor simply laughed at
the incident, begging him to remain and favour us with his company. Goring pointed to the chronometers, the case of
which he had opened, and remarked that he had been admiring them. He has evidently some practical knowledge of
mathematical instruments, as he told at a glance which was the most trustworthy of the three, and also named their
price within a few dollars. He had a discussion with the Captain too upon the variation of the compass, and when we
came back to the ocean currents he showed a thorough grasp of the subject. Altogether he rather improves upon
acquaintance, and is a man of decided culture and refinement. His voice harmonises with his conversation, and both are
the very antithesis of his face and figure.

The noonday observation shows that we have run two hundred and twenty miles. Towards evening the breeze freshened
up, and the first mate ordered reefs to be taken in the topsails and top-gallant sails in expectation of a windy night.
I observe that the barometer has fallen to twenty-nine. I trust our voyage will not be a rough one, as I am a poor
sailor, and my health would probably derive more harm than good from a stormy trip, though I have the greatest
confidence in the Captain’s seamanship and in the soundness of the vessel. Played cribbage with Mrs. Tibbs after
supper, and Harton gave us a couple of tunes on the violin.

October 18.— The gloomy prognostications of last night were not fulfilled, as the wind died away again, and we are
lying now in a long greasy swell, ruffled here and there by a fleeting catspaw which is insufficient to fill the sails.
The air is colder than it was yesterday, and I have put on one of the thick woollen jerseys which my wife knitted for
me. Harton came into my cabin in the morning, and we had a cigar together. He says that he remembers having seen Goring
in Cleveland, Ohio, in ‘69. He was, it appears, a mystery then as now, wandering about without any visible employment,
and extremely reticent on his own affairs. The man interests me as a psychological study. At breakfast this morning I
suddenly had that vague feeling of uneasiness which comes over some people when closely stared at, and, looking quickly
up, I met his eyes bent upon me with an intensity which amounted to ferocity, though their expression instantly
softened as he made some conventional remark upon the weather. Curiously enough, Harton says that he had a very similar
experience yesterday upon deck. I observe that Goring frequently talks to the coloured seamen as he strolls about — a
trait which I rather admire, as it is common to find half-breeds ignore their dark strain and treat their black
kinsfolk with greater intolerance than a white man would do. His little page is devoted to him, apparently, which
speaks well for his treatment of him. Altogether, the man is a curious mixture of incongruous qualities, and unless I
am deceived in him will give me food for observation during the voyage.

The Captain is grumbling about his chronometers, which do not register exactly the same time. He says it is the
first time that they have ever disagreed. We were unable to get a noonday observation on account of the haze. By dead
reckoning, we have done about a hundred and seventy miles in the twenty-four hours. The dark seamen have proved, as the
skipper prophesied, to be very inferior hands, but as they can both manage the wheel well they are kept steering, and
so leave the more experienced men to work the ship. These details are trivial enough, but a small thing serves as food
for gossip aboard ship. The appearance of a whale in the evening caused quite a flutter among us. From its sharp back
and forked tail, I should pronounce it to have been a rorqual, or “finner,” as they are called by the fishermen.

October 19.— Wind was cold, so I prudently remained in my cabin all day, only creeping out for dinner. Lying in my
bunk I can, without moving, reach my books, pipes, or anything else I may want, which is one advantage of a small
apartment. My old wound began to ache a little today, probably from the cold. Read “Montaigne’s Essays” and nursed
myself. Harton came in in the afternoon with Doddy, the Captain’s child, and the skipper himself followed, so that I
held quite a reception.

October 20 and 21.— Still cold, with a continual drizzle of rain, and I have not been able to leave the cabin. This
confinement makes me feel weak and depressed. Goring came in to see me, but his company did not tend to cheer me up
much, as he hardly uttered a word, but contented himself with staring at me in a peculiar and rather irritating manner.
He then got up and stole out of the cabin without saying anything. I am beginning to suspect that the man is a lunatic.
I think I mentioned that his cabin is next to mine. The two are simply divided by a thin wooden partition which is
cracked in many places, some of the cracks being so large that I can hardly avoid, as I lie in my bunk, observing his
motions in the adjoining room. Without any wish to play the spy, I see him continually stooping over what appears to be
a chart and working with a pencil and compasses. I have remarked the interest he displays in matters connected with
navigation, but I am surprised that he should take the trouble to work out the course of the ship. However, it is a
harmless amusement enough, and no doubt he verifies his results by those of the Captain.

I wish the man did not run in my thoughts so much. I had a nightmare on the night of the 20th, in which I thought my
bunk was a coffin, that I was laid out in it, and that Goring was endeavouring to nail up the lid, which I was
frantically pushing away. Even when I woke up, I could hardly persuade myself that I was not in a coffin. As a medical
man, I know that a nightmare is simply a vascular derangement of the cerebral hemispheres, and yet in my weak state I
cannot shake off the morbid impression which it produces.

October 22.— A fine day, with hardly a cloud in the sky, and a fresh breeze from the sou’-west which wafts us gaily
on our way. There has evidently been some heavy weather near us, as there is a tremendous swell on, and the ship
lurches until the end of the fore-yard nearly touches the water. Had a refreshing walk up and down the quarter-deck,
though I have hardly found my sea-legs yet. Several small birds — chaffinches, I think — perched in the rigging.

4.40 P.M.— While I was on deck this morning I heard a sudden explosion from the direction of my cabin, and, hurrying
down, found that I had very nearly met with a serious accident. Goring was cleaning a revolver, it seems, in his cabin,
when one of the barrels which he thought was unloaded went off. The ball passed through the side partition and imbedded
itself in the bulwarks in the exact place where my head usually rests. I have been under fire too often to magnify
trifles, but there is no doubt that if I had been in the bunk it must have killed me. Goring, poor fellow, did not know
that I had gone on deck that day, and must therefore have felt terribly frightened. I never saw such emotion in a man’s
face as when, on rushing out of his cabin with the smoking pistol in his hand, he met me face to face as I came down
from deck. Of course, he was profuse in his apologies, though I simply laughed at the incident.

11 P.M.— A misfortune has occurred so unexpected and so horrible that my little escape of the morning dwindles into
insignificance. Mrs. Tibbs and her child have disappeared — utterly and entirely disappeared. I can hardly compose
myself to write the sad details.

About half-past eight Tibbs rushed into my cabin with a very white face and asked me if I had seen his wife. I
answered that I had not. He then ran wildly into the saloon and began groping about for any trace of her, while I
followed him, endeavouring vainly to persuade him that his fears were ridiculous. We hunted over the ship for an hour
and a half without coming on any sign of the missing woman or child. Poor Tibbs lost his voice completely from calling
her name. Even the sailors, who are generally stolid enough, were deeply affected by the sight of him as he roamed
bareheaded and dishevelled about the deck, searching with feverish anxiety the most impossible places, and returning to
them again and again with a piteous pertinacity. The last time she was seen was about seven o’clock, when she took
Doddy on to the poop to give him a breath of fresh air before putting him to bed. There was no one there at the time
except the black seaman at the wheel, who denies having seen her at all. The whole affair is wrapped in mystery. My own
theory is that while Mrs. Tibbs was holding the child and standing near the bulwarks it gave a spring and fell
overboard, and that in her convulsive attempt to catch or save it, she followed it. I cannot account for the double
disappearance in any other way. It is quite feasible that such a tragedy should be enacted without the knowledge of the
man at the wheel, since it was dark at the time, and the peaked skylights of the saloon screen the greater part of the
quarter-deck. Whatever the truth may be it is a terrible catastrophe, and has cast the darkest gloom upon our voyage.
The mate has put the ship about, but of course there is not the slightest hope of picking them up. The Captain is lying
in a state of stupor in his cabin. I gave him a powerful dose of opium in his coffee that for a few hours at least his
anguish may be deadened.

October 23.— Woke with a vague feeling of heaviness and misfortune, but it was not until a few moments’ reflection
that I was able to recall our loss of the night before. When I came on deck I saw the poor skipper standing gazing back
at the waste of waters behind us which contains everything dear to him upon earth. I attempted to speak to him, but he
turned brusquely away, and began pacing the deck with his head sunk upon his breast. Even now, when the truth is so
clear, he cannot pass a boat or an unbent sail without peering under it. He looks ten years older than he did yesterday
morning. Harton is terribly cut up, for he was fond of little Doddy, and Goring seems sorry too. At least he has shut
himself up in his cabin all day, and when I got a casual glance at him his head was resting on his two hands as if in a
melancholy reverie. I fear we are about as dismal a crew as ever sailed. How shocked my wife will be to hear of our
disaster! The swell has gone down now, and we are doing about eight knots with all sail set and a nice little breeze.
Hyson is practically in command of the ship, as Tibbs, though he does his best to bear up and keep a brave front, is
incapable of applying himself to serious work.

October 24.— Is the ship accursed? Was there ever a voyage which began so fairly and which changed so disastrously?
Tibbs shot himself through the head during the night. I was awakened about three o’clock in the morning by an
explosion, and immediately sprang out of bed and rushed into the Captain’s cabin to find out the cause, though with a
terrible presentiment in my heart. Quickly as I went, Goring went more quickly still, for he was already in the cabin
stooping over the dead body of the Captain. It was a hideous sight, for the whole front of his face was blown in, and
the little room was swimming in blood. The pistol was lying beside him on the floor, just as it had dropped from his
hand. He had evidently put it to his mouth before pulling the trigger. Goring and I picked him reverently up and laid
him on his bed. The crew had all clustered into his cabin, and the six white men were deeply grieved, for they were old
hands who had sailed with him many years. There were dark looks and murmurs among them too, and one of them openly
declared that the ship was haunted. Harton helped to lay the poor skipper out, and we did him up in canvas between us.
At twelve o’clock the foreyard was hauled aback, and we committed his body to the deep, Goring reading the Church of
England burial service. The breeze has freshened up, and we have done ten knots all day and sometimes twelve. The
sooner we reach Lisbon and get away from this accursed ship the better pleased shall I be. I feel as though we were in
a floating coffin.

Little wonder that the poor sailors are superstitious when I, an educated man, feel it so strongly.

October 25.— Made a good run all day. Feel listless and depressed.

October 26.— Goring, Harton, and I had a chat together on deck in the morning. Harton tried to draw Goring out as to
his profession, and his object in going to Europe, but the quadroon parried all his questions and gave us no
information. Indeed, he seemed to be slightly offended by Harton’s pertinacity, and went down into his cabin. I wonder
why we should both take such an interest in this man! I suppose it is his striking appearance, coupled with his
apparent wealth, which piques our curiosity. Harton has a theory that he is really a detective, that he is after some
criminal who has got away to Portugal, and that he chooses this peculiar way of travelling that he may arrive unnoticed
and pounce upon his quarry unawares. I think the supposition is rather a far-fetched one, but Harton bases it upon a
book which Goring left on deck, and which he picked up and glanced over. It was a sort of scrap-book it seems, and
contained a large number of newspaper cuttings. All these cuttings related to murders which had been committed at
various times in the States during the last twenty years or so. The curious thing which Harton observed about them,
however, was that they were invariably murders the authors of which had never been brought to justice. They varied in
every detail, he says, as to the manner of execution and the social status of the victim, but they uniformly wound up
with the same formula that the murderer was still at large, though, of course, the police had every reason to expect
his speedy capture. Certainly the incident seems to support Harton’s theory, though it may be a mere whim of Gorings,
or, as I suggested to Harton, he may be collecting materials for a book which shall outvie De Quincey. In any case it
is no business of ours.

October 27, 28.— Wind still fair, and we are making good progress. Strange how easily a human unit may drop out of
its place and be forgotten! Tibbs is hardly ever mentioned now; Hyson has taken possession of his cabin, and all goes
on as before. Were it not for Mrs. Tibbs’s sewing-machine upon a side-table we might forget that the unfortunate family
had ever existed. Another accident occurred on board today, though fortunately not a very serious one. One of our white
hands had gone down the afterhold to fetch up a spare coil of rope, when one of the hatches which he had removed came
crashing down on the top of him. He saved his life by springing out of the way, but one of his feet was terribly
crushed, and he will be of little use for the remainder of the voyage. He attributes the accident to the carelessness
of his negro companion, who had helped him to shift the hatches. The latter, however, puts it down to the roll of the
ship. Whatever be the cause, it reduces our shorthanded crew still further. This run of ill-luck seems to be depressing
Harton, for he has lost his usual good spirits and joviality. Goring is the only one who preserves his cheerfulness. I
see him still working at his chart in his own cabin. His nautical knowledge would be useful should anything happen to
Hyson — which God forbid!

October 29, 30.— Still bowling along with a fresh breeze. All quiet and nothing of note to chronicle.

October 31.— My weak lungs, combined with the exciting episodes of the voyage, have shaken my nervous system so much
that the most trivial incident affects me. I can hardly believe that I am the same man who tied the external iliac
artery, an operation requiring the nicest precision, under a heavy rifle fire at Antietam. I am as nervous as a child.
I was lying half dozing last night about four bells in the middle watch trying in vain to drop into a refreshing sleep.
There was no light inside my cabin, but a single ray of moonlight streamed in through the port hole, throwing a silvery
flickering circle upon the door. As I lay I kept my drowsy eyes upon this circle, and was conscious that it was
gradually becoming less well-defined as my senses left me, when I was suddenly recalled to full wakefulness by the
appearance of a small dark object in the very centre of the luminous disc. I lay quietly and breathlessly watching it.
Gradually it grew larger and plainer, and then I perceived that it was a human hand which had been cautiously inserted
through the chink of the half-closed door — a hand which, as I observed with a thrill of horror, was not provided with
fingers. The door swung cautiously backwards, and Goring’s head followed his hand. It appeared in the centre of the
moonlight, and was framed as it were in a ghastly uncertain halo, against which his features showed out plainly. It
seemed to me that I had never seen such an utterly fiendish and merciless expression upon a human face. His eyes were
dilated and glaring, his lips drawn back so as to show his white fangs, and his straight black hair appeared to bristle
over his low forehead like the hood of a cobra. The sudden and noiseless apparition had such an effect upon me that I
sprang up in bed trembling in every limb, and held out my hand towards my revolver. I was heartily ashamed of my
hastiness when he explained the object of his intrusion, as he immediately did in the most courteous language. He had
been suffering from toothache, poor fellow! and had come in to beg some laudanum, knowing that I possessed a medicine
chest. As to a sinister expression he is never a beauty, and what with my state of nervous tension and the effect of
the shifting moonlight it was easy to conjure up something horrible. I gave him twenty drops, and he went off again
with many expressions of gratitude. I can hardly say how much this trivial incident affected me. I have felt unstrung
all day.

A week’s record of our voyage is here omitted, as nothing eventful occurred during the time, and my log consists
merely of a few pages of unimportant gossip.

November 7.— Harton and I sat on the poop all the morning, for the weather is becoming very warm as we come into
southern latitudes. We reckon that we have done two-thirds of our voyage. How glad we shall be to see the green banks
of the Tagus, and leave this unlucky ship for ever! I was endeavouring to amuse Harton today and to while away the time
by telling him some of the experiences of my past life. Among others I related to him how I came into the possession of
my black stone, and as a finale I rummaged in the side pocket of my old shooting coat and produced the identical object
in question. He and I were bending over it together, I pointing out to him the curious ridges upon its surface, when we
were conscious of a shadow falling between us and the sun, and looking round saw Goring standing behind us glaring over
our shoulders at the stone. For some reason or other he appeared to be powerfully excited, though he was evidently
trying to control himself and to conceal his emotion. He pointed once or twice at my relic with his stubby thumb before
he could recover himself sufficiently to ask what it was and how I obtained it — a question put in such a brusque
manner that I should have been offended had I not known the man to be an eccentric. I told him the story very much as I
had told it to Harton. He listened with the deepest interest, and then asked me if I had any idea what the stone was. I
said I had not, beyond that it was meteoric. He asked me if I had ever tried its effect upon a negro. I said I had not.
“Come,” said he, “we’ll see what our black friend at the wheel thinks of it.” He took the stone in his hand and went
across to the sailor, and the two examined it carefully. I could see the man gesticulating and nodding his head
excitedly as if making some assertion, while his face betrayed the utmost astonishment, mixed I think with some
reverence. Goring came across the deck to us presently, still holding the stone in his hand. “He says it is a
worthless, useless thing,” he said, “and fit only to be chucked overboard,” with which he raised his hand and would
most certainly have made an end of my relic, had the black sailor behind him not rushed forward and seized him by the
wrist. Finding himself secured Goring dropped the stone and turned away with a very bad grace to avoid my angry
remonstrances at his breach of faith. The black picked up the stone and handed it to me with a low bow and every sign
of profound respect. The whole affair is inexplicable. I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that Goring is a maniac or
something very near one. When I compare the effect produced by the stone upon the sailor, however, with the respect
shown to Martha on the plantation, and the surprise of Goring on its first production, I cannot but come to the
conclusion that I have really got hold of some powerful talisman which appeals to the whole dark race. I must not trust
it in Goring’s hands again.

November 8, 9.— What splendid weather we are having! Beyond one little blow, we have had nothing but fresh breezes
the whole voyage. These two days we have made better runs than any hitherto.

It is a pretty thing to watch the spray fly up from our prow as it cuts through the waves. The sun shines through it
and breaks it up into a number of miniature rainbows —“sun-dogs,” the sailors call them. I stood on the fo’csle-head
for several hours today watching the effect, and surrounded by a halo of prismatic colours.

The steersman has evidently told the other blacks about my wonderful stone, for I am treated by them all with the
greatest respect. Talking about optical phenomena, we had a curious one yesterday evening which was pointed out to me
by Hyson. This was the appearance of a triangular well-defined object high up in the heavens to the north of us. He
explained that it was exactly like the Peak of Teneriffe as seen from a great distance — the peak was, however, at that
moment at least five hundred miles to the south. It may have been a cloud, or it may have been one of those strange
reflections of which one reads. The weather is very warm. The mate says that he never knew it so warm in these
latitudes. Played chess with Harton in the evening.

November 10.— It is getting warmer and warmer. Some land birds came and perched in the rigging today, though we are
still a considerable way from our destination. The heat is so great that we are too lazy to do anything but lounge
about the decks and smoke. Goring came over to me today and asked me some more questions about my stone; but I answered
him rather shortly, for I have not quite forgiven him yet for the cool way in which he attempted to deprive me of
it.

November 11, 12.— Still making good progress. I had no idea Portugal was ever as hot as this, but no doubt it is
cooler on land. Hyson himself seemed surprised at it, and so do the men.

November 13.— A most extraordinary event has happened, so extraordinary as to be almost inexplicable. Either Hyson
has blundered wonderfully, or some magnetic influence has disturbed our instruments. Just about daybreak the watch on
the fo’csle-head shouted out that he heard the sound of surf ahead, and Hyson thought he saw the loom of land. The ship
was put about, and, though no lights were seen, none of us doubted that we had struck the Portuguese coast a little
sooner than we had expected. What was our surprise to see the scene which was revealed to us at break of day! As far as
we could look on either side was one long line of surf, great, green billows rolling in and breaking into a cloud of
foam. But behind the surf what was there! Not the green banks nor the high cliffs of the shores of Portugal, but a
great sandy waste which stretched away and away until it blended with the skyline. To right and left, look where you
would, there was nothing but yellow sand, heaped in some places into fantastic mounds, some of them several hundred
feet high, while in other parts were long stretches as level apparently as a billiard board. Harton and I, who had come
on deck together, looked at each other in astonishment, and Harton burst out laughing. Hyson is exceedingly mortified
at the occurrence, and protests that the instruments have been tampered with. There is no doubt that this is the
mainland of Africa, and that it was really the Peak of Teneriffe which we saw some days ago upon the northern horizon.
At the time when we saw the land birds we must have been passing some of the Canary Islands. If we continued on the
same course, we are now to the north of Cape Blanco, near the unexplored country which skirts the great Sahara. All we
can do is to rectify our instruments as far as possible and start afresh for our destination.

8.30 P.M.— Have been lying in a calm all day. The coast is now about a mile and a half from us. Hyson has examined
the instruments, but cannot find any reason for their extraordinary deviation.

This is the end of my private journal, and I must make the remainder of my statement from memory. There is little
chance of my being mistaken about facts which have seared themselves into my recollection. That very night the storm
which had been brewing so long burst over us, and I came to learn whither all those little incidents were tending which
I had recorded so aimlessly. Blind fool that I was not to have seen it sooner! I shall tell what occurred as precisely
as I can.

I had gone into my cabin about half-past eleven, and was preparing to go to bed, when a tap came at my door. On
opening it I saw Goring’s little black page, who told me that his master would like to have a word with me on deck. I
was rather surprised that he should want me at such a late hour, but I went up without hesitation. I had hardly put my
foot on the quarter-deck before I was seized from behind, dragged down upon my back, and a handkerchief slipped round
my mouth. I struggled as hard as I could, but a coil of rope was rapidly and firmly wound round me, and I found myself
lashed to the davit of one of the boats, utterly powerless to do or say anything, while the point of a knife pressed to
my throat warned me to cease my struggles. The night was so dark that I had been unable hitherto to recognise my
assailants, but as my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and the moon broke out through the clouds that obscured it,
I made out that I was surrounded by the two negro sailors, the black cook, and my fellow-passenger Goring. Another man
was crouching on the deck at my feet, but he was in the shadow and I could not recognise him.

All this occurred so rapidly that a minute could hardly have elapsed from the time I mounted the companion until I
found myself gagged and powerless. It was so sudden that I could scarce bring myself to realise it, or to comprehend
what it all meant. I heard the gang round me speaking in short, fierce whispers to each other, and some instinct told
me that my life was the question at issue. Goring spoke authoritatively and angrily — the others doggedly and all
together, as if disputing his commands. Then they moved away in a body to the opposite side of the deck, where I could
still hear them whispering, though they were concealed from my view by the saloon skylights.

All this time the voices of the watch on deck chatting and laughing at the other end of the ship were distinctly
audible, and I could see them gathered in a group, little dreaming of the dark doings which were going on within thirty
yards of them. Oh! that I could have given them one word of warning, even though I had lost my life in doing it I but
it was impossible. The moon was shining fitfully through the scattered clouds, and I could see the silvery gleam of the
surge, and beyond it the vast weird desert with its fantastic sand-hills. Glancing down, I saw that the man who had
been crouching on the deck was still lying there, and as I gazed at him, a flickering ray of moonlight fell full upon
his upturned face. Great Heaven! even now, when more than twelve years have elapsed, my hand trembles as I write that,
in spite of distorted features and projecting eyes, I recognised the face of Harton, the cheery young clerk who had
been my companion during the voyage. It needed no medical eye to see that he was quite dead, while the twisted
handkerchief round the neck, and the gag in his mouth, showed the silent way in which the hell-hounds had done their
work. The clue which explained every event of our voyage came upon me like a flash of light as I gazed on poor Harton’s
corpse. Much was dark and unexplained, but I felt a great dim perception of the truth.

I heard the striking of a match at the other side of the skylights, and then I saw the tall, gaunt figure of Goring
standing up on the bulwarks and holding in his hands what appeared to be a dark lantern. He lowered this for a moment
over the side of the ship, and, to my inexpressible astonishment, I saw it answered instantaneously by a flash among
the sand-hills on shore, which came and went so rapidly, that unless I had been following the direction of Goring’s
gaze, I should never have detected it. Again he lowered the lantern, and again it was answered from the shore. He then
stepped down from the bulwarks, and in doing so slipped, making such a noise, that for a moment my heart bounded with
the thought that the attention of the watch would be directed to his proceedings. It was a vain hope. The night was
calm and the ship motionless, so that no idea of duty kept them vigilant. Hyson, who after the death of Tibbs was in
command of both watches, had gone below to snatch a few hours’ sleep, and the boatswain who was left in charge was
standing with the other two men at the foot of the foremast. Powerless, speechless, with the cords cutting into my
flesh and the murdered man at my feet, I awaited the next act in the tragedy.

The four ruffians were standing up now at the other side of the deck. The cook was armed with some sort of a
cleaver, the others had knives, and Goring had a revolver. They were all leaning against the rail and looking out over
the water as if watching for something. I saw one of them grasp another’s arm and point as if at some object, and
following the direction I made out the loom of a large moving mass making towards the ship. As it emerged from the
gloom I saw that it was a great canoe crammed with men and propelled by at least a score of paddles. As it shot under
our stern the watch caught sight of it also, and raising a cry hurried aft. They were too late, however. A swarm of
gigantic negroes clambered over the quarter, and led by Goring swept down the deck in an irresistible torrent. All
opposition was overpowered in a moment, the unarmed watch were knocked over and bound, and the sleepers dragged out of
their bunks and secured in the same manner.

Hyson made an attempt to defend the narrow passage leading to his cabin, and I heard a scuffle, and his voice
shouting for assistance. There was none to assist, however, and he was brought on to the poop with the blood streaming
from a deep cut in his forehead. He was gagged like the others, and a council was held upon our fate by the negroes. I
saw our black seamen pointing towards me and making some statement, which was received with murmurs of astonishment and
incredulity by the savages. One of them then came over to me, and plunging his hand into my pocket took out my black
stone and held it up. He then handed it to a man who appeared to be a chief, who examined it as minutely as the light
would permit, and muttering a few words passed it on to the warrior beside him, who also scrutinised it and passed it
on until it had gone from hand to hand round the whole circle. The chief then said a few words to Goring in the native
tongue, on which the quadroon addressed me in English. At this moment I seem to see the scene. The tall masts of the
ship with the moonlight streaming down, silvering the yards and bringing the network of cordage into hard relief; the
group of dusky warriors leaning on their spears; the dead man at my feet; the line of white-faced prisoners, and in
front of me the loathsome half-breed, looking in his white linen and elegant clothes a strange contrast to his
associates.

“You will bear me witness,” he said in his softest accents, “that I am no party to sparing your life. If it rested
with me you would die as these other men are about to do. I have no personal grudge against either you or them, but I
have devoted my life to the destruction of the white race, and you are the first that has ever been in my power and has
escaped me. You may thank that stone of yours for your life. These poor fellows reverence it, and indeed if it really
be what they think it is they have cause. Should it prove when we get ashore that they are mistaken, and that its shape
and material is a mere chance, nothing can save your life. In the meantime we wish to treat you well, so if there are
any of your possessions which you would like to take with you, you are at liberty to get them.” As he finished he gave
a sign, and a couple of the negroes unbound me, though without removing the gag. I was led down into the cabin, where I
put a few valuables into my pockets, together with a pocket-compass and my journal of the voyage. They then pushed me
over the side into a small canoe, which was lying beside the large one, and my guards followed me, and shoving off
began paddling for the shore. We had got about a hundred yards or so from the ship when our steersman held up his hand,
and the paddlers paused for a moment and listened. Then on the silence of the night I heard a sort of dull, moaning
sound, followed by a succession of splashes in the water. That is all I know of the fate of my poor shipmates. Almost
immediately afterwards the large canoe followed us, and the deserted ship was left drifting about — a dreary,
spectre-like hulk. Nothing was taken from her by the savages. The whole fiendish transaction was carried through as
decorously and temperately as though it were a religious rite.

The first grey of daylight was visible in the east as we passed through the surge and reached the shore. Leaving
half-a-dozen men with the canoes, the rest of the negroes set off through the sand-hills, leading me with them, but
treating me very gently and respectfully. It was difficult walking, as we sank over our ankles into the loose, shifting
sand at every step, and I was nearly dead beat by the time we reached the native village, or town rather, for it was a
place of considerable dimensions. The houses were conical structures not unlike bee-hives, and were made of compressed
seaweed cemented over with a rude form of mortar, there being neither stick nor stone upon the coast nor anywhere
within many hundreds of miles. As we entered the town an enormous crowd of both sexes came swarming out to meet us,
beating tom-toms and howling and screaming. On seeing me they redoubled their yells and assumed a threatening attitude,
which was instantly quelled by a few words shouted by my escort. A buzz of wonder succeeded the war-cries and yells of
the moment before, and the whole dense mass proceeded down the broad central street of the town, having my escort and
myself in the centre.

My statement hitherto may seem so strange as to excite doubt in the minds of those who do not know me, but it was
the fact which I am now about to relate which caused my own brother-inlaw to insult me by disbelief. I can but relate
the occurrence in the simplest words, and trust to chance and time to prove their truth. In the centre of this main
street there was a large building, formed in the same primitive way as the others, but towering high above them; a
stockade of beautifully polished ebony rails was planted all round it, the framework of the door was formed by two
magnificent elephant’s tusks sunk in the ground on each side and meeting at the top, and the aperture was closed by a
screen of native cloth richly embroidered with gold. We made our way to this imposing-looking structure, but, on
reaching the opening in the stockade, the multitude stopped and squatted down upon their hams, while I was led through
into the enclosure by a few of the chiefs and elders of the tribe, Goring accompanying us, and in fact directing the
proceedings. On reaching the screen which closed the temple — for such it evidently was — my hat and my shoes were
removed, and I was then led in, a venerable old negro leading the way carrying in his hand my stone, which had been
taken from my pocket. The building was only lit up by a few long slits in the roof, through which the tropical sun
poured, throwing broad golden bars upon the clay floor, alternating with intervals of darkness.

The interior was even larger than one would have imagined from the outside appearance. The walls were hung with
native mats, shells, and other ornaments, but the remainder of the great space was quite empty, with the exception of a
single object in the centre. This was the figure of a colossal negro, which I at first thought to be some real king or
high priest of titanic size, but as I approached it I saw by the way in which the light was reflected from it that it
was a statue admirably cut in jet-black stone. I was led up to this idol, for such it seemed to be, and looking at it
closer I saw that though it was perfect in every other respect, one of its ears had been broken short off. The
grey-haired negro who held my relic mounted upon a small stool, and stretching up his arm fitted Martha’s black stone
on to the jagged surface on the side of the statue’s head. There could not be a doubt that the one had been broken off
from the other. The parts dovetailed together so accurately that when the old man removed his hand the ear stuck in its
place for a few seconds before dropping into his open palm. The group round me prostrated themselves upon the ground at
the sight with a cry of reverence, while the crowd outside, to whom the result was communicated, set up a wild whooping
and cheering.

In a moment I found myself converted from a prisoner into a demi-god. I was escorted back through the town in
triumph, the people pressing forward to touch my clothing and to gather up the dust on which my foot had trod. One of
the largest huts was put at my disposal, and a banquet of every native delicacy was served me. I still felt, however,
that I was not a free man, as several spearmen were placed as a guard at the entrance of my hut. All day my mind was
occupied with plans of escape, but none seemed in any way feasible. On the one side was the great arid desert
stretching away to Timbuctoo, on the other was a sea untraversed by vessels. The more I pondered over the problem the
more hopeless did it seem.

I little dreamed how near I was to its solution.

Night had fallen, and the clamour of the negroes had died gradually away. I was stretched on the couch of skins
which had been provided for me, and was still meditating over my future, when Goring walked stealthily into the hut. My
first idea was that he had come to complete his murderous holocaust by making away with me, the last survivor, and I
sprang up upon my feet, determined to defend myself to the last. He smiled when he saw the action, and motioned me down
again while he seated himself upon the other end of the couch.

“What do you think of me?” was the astonishing question with which he commenced our conversation.

“Think of you!” I almost yelled. “I think you the vilest, most unnatural renegade that ever polluted the earth. If
we were away from these black devils of yours I would strangle you with my hands!”

“Don’t speak so loud,” he said, without the slightest appearance of irritation. “I don’t want our chat to be cut
short. So you would strangle me, would you!” he went on, with an amused smile. “I suppose I am returning good for evil,
for I have come to help you to escape.”

“You!” I gasped incredulously.

“Yes, I,” he continued.

“Oh, there is no credit to me in the matter. I am quite consistent. There is no reason why I should not be perfectly
candid with you. I wish to be king over these fellows — not a very high ambition, certainly, but you know what Caesar
said about being first in a village in Gaul. Well, this unlucky stone of yours has not only saved your life, but has
turned all their heads so that they think you are come down from heaven, and my influence will be gone until you are
out of the way. That is why I am going to help you to escape, since I cannot kill you”— this in the most natural and
dulcet voice, as if the desire to do so were a matter of course.

“You would give the world to ask me a few questions,” he went on, after a pause; “but you are too proud to do it.
Never mind, I’ll tell you one or two things, because I want your fellow white men to know them when you go back — if
you are lucky enough to get back. About that cursed stone of yours, for instance. These negroes, or at least so the
legend goes, were Mahometans originally. While Mahomet himself was still alive, there was a schism among his followers,
and the smaller party moved away from Arabia, and eventually crossed Africa. They took away with them, in their exile,
a valuable relic of their old faith in the shape of a large piece of the black stone of Mecca. The stone was a meteoric
one, as you may have heard, and in its fall upon the earth it broke into two pieces. One of these pieces is still at
Mecca. The larger piece was carried away to Barbary, where a skilful worker modelled it into the fashion which you saw
today. These men are the descendants of the original seceders from Mahomet, and they have brought their relic safely
through all their wanderings until they settled in this strange place, where the desert protects them from their
enemies.”

“And the ear?” I asked, almost involuntarily.

“Oh, that was the same story over again. Some of the tribe wandered away to the south a few hundred years ago, and
one of them, wishing to have good luck for the enterprise, got into the temple at night and carried off one of the
ears. There has been a tradition among the negroes ever since that the ear would come back some day. The fellow who
carried it was caught by some slaver, no doubt, and that was how it got into America, and so into your hands — and you
have had the honour of fulfilling the prophecy.”

He paused for a few minutes, resting his head upon his hands, waiting apparently for me to speak. When he looked up
again, the whole expression of his face had changed. His features were firm and set, and he changed the air of half
levity with which he had spoken before for one of sternness and almost ferocity.

“I wish you to carry a message back,” he said, “to the white race, the great dominating race whom I hate and defy.
Tell them that I have battened on their blood for twenty years, that I have slain them until even I became tired of
what had once been a joy, that I did this unnoticed and unsuspected in the face of every precaution which their
civilisation could suggest. There is no satisfaction in revenge when your enemy does not know who has struck him. I am
not sorry, therefore, to have you as a messenger. There is no need why I should tell you how this great hate became
born in me. See this,” and he held up his mutilated hand; “that was done by a white man’s knife. My father was white,
my mother was a slave. When he died she was sold again, and I, a child then, saw her lashed to death to break her of
some of the little airs and graces which her late master had encouraged in her. My young wife, too, oh, my young wife!”
a shudder ran through his whole frame. “No matter! I swore my oath, and I kept it. From Maine to Florida, and from
Boston to San Francisco, you could track my steps by sudden deaths which baffled the police. I warred against the whole
white race as they for centuries had warred against the black one. At last, as I tell you, I sickened of blood. Still,
the sight of a white face was abhorrent to me, and I determined to find some bold free black people and to throw in my
lot with them, to cultivate their latent powers, and to form a nucleus for a great coloured nation. This idea possessed
me, and I travelled over the world for two years seeking for what I desired. At last I almost despaired of finding it.
There was no hope of regeneration in the slave-dealing Soudanese, the debased Fantee, or the Americanised negroes of
Liberia. I was returning from my quest when chance brought me in contact with this magnificent tribe of dwellers in the
desert, and I threw in my lot with them. Before doing so, however, my old instinct of revenge prompted me to make one
last visit to the United States, and I returned from it in the Marie Celeste.

“As to the voyage itself, your intelligence will have told you by this time that, thanks to my manipulation, both
compasses and chronometers were entirely untrustworthy. I alone worked out the course with correct instruments of my
own, while the steering was done by my black friends under my guidance. I pushed Tibbs’s wife overboard. What! You look
surprised and shrink away. Surely you had guessed that by this time. I would have shot you that day through the
partition, but unfortunately you were not there. I tried again afterwards, but you were awake. I shot Tibbs. I think
the idea of suicide was carried out rather neatly. Of course when once we got on the coast the rest was simple. I had
bargained that all on board should die; but that stone of yours upset my plans. I also bargained that there should be
no plunder. No one can say we are pirates. We have acted from principle, not from any sordid motive.”

I listened in amazement to the summary of his crimes which this strange man gave me, all in the quietest and most
composed of voices, as though detailing incidents of every-day occurrence. I still seem to see him sitting like a
hideous nightmare at the end of my couch, with the single rude lamp flickering over his cadaverous features.

“And now,” he continued, “there is no difficulty about your escape. These stupid adopted children of mine will say
that you have gone back to heaven from whence you came. The wind blows off the land. I have a boat all ready for you,
well stored with provisions and water. I am anxious to be rid of you, so you may rely that nothing is neglected. Rise
up and follow me.”

I did what he commanded, and he led me through the door of the hut.

The guards had either been withdrawn, or Goring had arranged matters with them. We passed unchallenged through the
town and across the sandy plain. Once more I heard the roar of the sea, and saw the long white line of the surge. Two
figures were standing upon the shore arranging the gear of a small boat. They were the two sailors who had been with us
on the voyage.

“See him safely through the surf,” said Goring. The two men sprang in and pushed off, pulling me in after them. With
mainsail and jib we ran out from the land and passed safely over the bar. Then my two companions without a word of
farewell sprang overboard, and I saw their heads like black dots on the white foam as they made their way back to the
shore, while I scudded away into the blackness of the night. Looking back I caught my last glimpse of Goring. He was
standing upon the summit of a sand-hill, and the rising moon behind him threw his gaunt angular figure into hard
relief. He was waving his arms frantically to and fro; it may have been to encourage me on my way, but the gestures
seemed to me at the time to be threatening ones, and I have often thought that it was more likely that his old savage
instinct had returned when he realised that I was out of his power. Be that as it may, it was the last that I ever saw
or ever shall see of Septimius Goring.

There is no need for me to dwell upon my solitary voyage. I steered as well as I could for the Canaries, but was
picked up upon the fifth day by the British and African Steam Navigation Company’s boat Monrovia. Let me take this
opportunity of tendering my sincerest thanks to Captain Stornoway and his officers for the great kindness which they
showed me from that time till they landed me in Liverpool, where I was enabled to take one of the Guion boats to New
York.

From the day on which I found myself once more in the bosom of my family I have said little of what I have
undergone. The subject is still an intensely painful one to me, and the little which I have dropped has been
discredited. I now put the facts before the public as they occurred, careless how far they may be believed, and simply
writing them down because my lung is growing weaker, and I feel the responsibility of holding my peace longer. I make
no vague statement. Turn to your map of Africa. There above Cape Blanco, where the land trends away north and south
from the westernmost point of the continent, there it is that Septimius Goring still reigns over his dark subjects,
unless retribution has overtaken him; and there, where the long green ridges run swiftly in to roar and hiss upon the
hot yellow sand, it is there that Harton lies with Hyson and the other poor fellows who were done to death in the Marie
Celeste.

The Great Keinplatz Experiment

Of all the sciences which have puzzled the sons of men, none had such an attraction for the learned
Professor von Baumgarten as those which relate to psychology and the ill-defined relations between mind and matter. A
celebrated anatomist, a profound chemist, and one of the first physiologists in Europe, it was a relief for him to turn
from these subjects and to bring his varied knowledge to bear upon the study of the soul and the mysterious
relationship of spirits. At first, when as a young man he began to dip into the secrets of mesmerism, his mind seemed
to be wandering in a strange land where all was chaos and darkness, save that here and there some great unexplainable
and disconnected fact loomed out in front of him. As the years passed, however, and as the worthy Professor’s stock of
knowledge increased, for knowledge begets knowledge as money bears interest, much which had seemed strange and
unaccountable began to take another shape in his eyes. New trains of reasoning became familiar to him, and he perceived
connecting links where all had been incomprehensible and startling.

By experiments which extended over twenty years, he obtained a basis of facts upon which it was his ambition to
build up a new exact science which should embrace mesmerism, spiritualism, and all cognate subjects. In this he was
much helped by his intimate knowledge of the more intricate parts of animal physiology which treat of nerve currents
and the working of the brain; for Alexis von Baumgarten was Regius Professor of Physiology at the University of
Keinplatz, and had all the resources of the laboratory to aid him in his profound researches.

Professor von Baumgarten was tall and thin, with a hatchet face and steel-grey eyes, which were singularly bright
and penetrating. Much thought had furrowed his forehead and contracted his heavy eyebrows, so that he appeared to wear
a perpetual frown, which often misled people as to his character, for though austere he was tender-hearted. He was
popular among the students, who would gather round him after his lectures and listen eagerly to his strange theories.
Often he would call for volunteers from amongst them in order to conduct some experiment, so that eventually there was
hardly a lad in the class who had not, at one time or another, been thrown into a mesmeric trance by his Professor.

Of all these young devotees of science there was none who equalled in enthusiasm Fritz von Hartmann. It had often
seemed strange to his fellow-students that wild, reckless Fritz, as dashing a young fellow as ever hailed from the
Rhinelands, should devote the time and trouble which he did in reading up abstruse works and in assisting the Professor
in his strange experiments. The fact was, however, that Fritz was a knowing and long-headed fellow. Months before he
had lost his heart to young Elise, the blue-eyed, yellow-haired daughter of the lecturer. Although he had succeeded in
learning from her lips that she was not indifferent to his suit, he had never dared to announce himself to her family
as a formal suitor. Hence he would have found it a difficult matter to see his young lady had he not adopted the
expedient of making himself useful to the Professor. By this means he frequently was asked to the old man’s house,
where he willingly submitted to be experimented upon in any way as long as there was a chance of his receiving one
bright glance from the eyes of Elise or one touch of her little hand.

Young Fritz von Hartmann was a handsome lad enough. There were broad acres, too, which would descend to him when his
father died. To many he would have seemed an eligible suitor; but Madame frowned upon his presence in the house, and
lectured the Professor at times on his allowing such a wolf to prowl around their lamb. To tell the truth, Fritz had an
evil name in Keinplatz. Never was there a riot or a duel, or any other mischief afoot, but the young Rhinelander
figured as a ringleader in it. No one used more free and violent language, no one drank more, no one played cards more
habitually, no one was more idle, save in the one solitary subject.

No wonder, then, that the good Frau Professorin gathered her Fraulein under her wing, and resented the attentions of
such a mauvais sujet. As to the worthy lecturer, he was too much engrossed by his strange studies to form an opinion
upon the subject one way or the other.

For many years there was one question which had continually obtruded itself upon his thoughts. All his experiments
and his theories turned upon a single point. A hundred times a day the Professor asked himself whether it was possible
for the human spirit to exist apart from the body for a time and then to return to it once again. When the possibility
first suggested itself to him his scientific mind had revolted from it. It clashed too violently with preconceived
ideas and the prejudices of his early training. Gradually, however, as he proceeded farther and farther along the
pathway of original research, his mind shook off its old fetters and became ready to face any conclusion which could
reconcile the facts. There were many things which made him believe that it was possible for mind to exist apart from
matter. At last it occurred to him that by a daring and original experiment the question might be definitely
decided.

“It is evident,” he remarked in his celebrated article upon invisible entities, which appeared in the Keinplatz
wochenliche Medicalschrift about this time, and which surprised the whole scientific world —“it is evident that under
certain conditions the soul or mind does separate itself from the body. In the case of a mesmerised person, the body
lies in a cataleptic condition, but the spirit has left it. Perhaps you reply that the soul is there, but in a dormant
condition. I answer that this is not so, otherwise how can one account for the condition of clairvoyance, which has
fallen into disrepute through the knavery of certain scoundrels, but which can easily be shown to be an undoubted fact.
I have been able myself, with a sensitive subject, to obtain an accurate description of what was going on in another
room or another house. How can such knowledge be accounted for on any hypothesis save that the soul of the subject has
left the body and is wandering through space? For a moment it is recalled by the voice of the operator and says what it
has seen, and then wings its way once more through the air. Since the spirit is by its very nature invisible, we cannot
see these comings and goings, but we see their effect in the body of the subject, now rigid and inert, now struggling
to narrate impressions which could never have come to it by natural means. There is only one way which I can see by
which the fact can be demonstrated. Although we in the flesh are unable to see these spirits, yet our own spirits,
could we separate them from the body, would be conscious of the presence of others. It is my intention, therefore,
shortly to mesmerise one of my pupils. I shall then mesmerise myself in a manner which has become easy to me. After
that, if my theory holds good, my spirit will have no difficulty in meeting and communing with the spirit of my pupil,
both being separated from the body. I hope to be able to communicate the result of this interesting experiment in an
early number of the Keinplatz wochenliche Medicalschrilt.”

When the good Professor finally fulfilled his promise, and published an account of what occurred, the narrative was
so extraordinary that it was received with general incredulity. The tone of some of the papers was so offensive in
their comments upon the matter that the angry savant declared that he would never open his mouth again or refer to the
subject in any way — a promise which he has faithfully kept. This narrative has been compiled, however, from the most
authentic sources, and the events cited in it may be relied upon as substantially correct.

It happened, then, that shortly after the time when Professor von Baumgarten conceived the idea of the
above-mentioned experiment, he was walking thoughtfully homewards after a long day in the laboratory, when he met a
crowd of roystering students who had just streamed out from a beer-house. At the head of them, half-intoxicated and
very noisy, was young Fritz von Hartmann. The Professor would have passed them, but his pupil ran across and
intercepted him.

“Heh! my worthy master,” he said, taking the old man by the sleeve, and leading him down the road with him. “There
is something that I have to say to you, and it is easier for me to say it now, when the good beer is humming in my
head, than at another time.”

“What is it, then, Fritz?” the physiologist asked, looking at him in mild surprise.

“I hear, mein herr, that you are about to do some wondrous experiment in which you hope to take a man’s soul out of
his body, and then to put it back again. Is it not so?”

“It is true, Fritz.”

“And have you considered, my dear sir, that you may have some difficulty in finding some one on whom to try this?
Potztausend! Suppose that the soul went out and would not come back. That would be a bad business. Who is to take the
risk?”

“But, Fritz,” the Professor cried, very much startled by this view of the matter, “I had relied upon your assistance
in the attempt. Surely you will not desert me. Consider the honour and glory.”

“Consider the fiddlesticks!” the student cried angrily. “Am I to be paid always thus? Did I not stand two hours upon
a glass insulator while you poured electricity into my body? Have you not stimulated my phrenic nerves, besides ruining
my digestion with a galvanic current round my stomach? Four-and-thirty times you have mesmerised me, and what have I
got from all this? Nothing. And now you wish to take my soul out, as you would take the works from a watch. It is more
than flesh and blood can stand.”

“Dear, dear!” the Professor cried in great distress. “That is very true, Fritz. I never thought of it before. If you
can but suggest how I can compensate you, you will find me ready and willing.”

“Then listen,” said Fritz solemnly. “If you will pledge your word that after this experiment I may have the hand of
your daughter, then I am willing to assist you; but if not, I shall have nothing to do with it. These are my only
terms.”

“And what would my daughter say to this?” the Professor exclaimed, after a pause of astonishment.

“Elise would welcome it,” the young man replied. “We have loved each other long.”

“Then she shall be yours,” the physiologist said with decision, “for you are a good-hearted young man, and one of
the best neurotic subjects that I have ever known — that is when you are not under the influence of alcohol. My
experiment is to be performed upon the fourth of next month. You will attend at the physiological laboratory at twelve
o’clock. It will be a great occasion, Fritz. Von Gruben is coming from Jena, and Hinterstein from Basle. The chief men
of science of all South Germany will be there.

“I shall be punctual,” the student said briefly; and so the two parted. The Professor plodded homeward, thinking of
the great coming event, while the young man staggered along after his noisy companions, with his mind full of the
blue-eyed Elise, and of the bargain which he had concluded with her father.

The Professor did not exaggerate when he spoke of the widespread interest excited by his novel psychophysiological
experiment. Long before the hour had arrived the room was filled by a galaxy of talent. Besides the celebrities whom he
had mentioned, there had come from London the great Professor Lurcher, who had just established his reputation by a
remarkable treatise upon cerebral centres. Several great lights of the Spiritualistic body had also come a long
distance to be present, as had a Swedenborgian minister, who considered that the proceedings might throw some light
upon the doctrines of the Rosy Cross.

There was considerable applause from this eminent assembly upon the appearance of Professor von Baumgarten and his
subject upon the platform. The lecturer, in a few well-chosen words, explained what his views were, and how he proposed
to test them. “I hold,” he said, “that when a person is under the influence of mesmerism, his spirit is for the time
released from his body, and I challenge any one to put forward any other hypothesis which will account for the fact of
clairvoyance. I therefore hope that upon mesmerising my young friend here, and then putting myself into a trance, our
spirits may be able to commune together, though our bodies lie still and inert. After a time nature will resume her
sway, our spirits will return into our respective bodies, and all will be as before. With your kind permission, we
shall now proceed to attempt the experiment.”

The applause was renewed at this speech, and the audience settled down in expectant silence. With a few rapid passes
the Professor mesmerised the young man, who sank back in his chair, pale and rigid. He then took a bright globe of
glass from his pocket, and by concentrating his gaze upon it and making a strong mental effort, he succeeded in
throwing himself into the same condition. It was a strange and impressive sight to see the old man and the young
sitting together in the same cataleptic condition. Whither, then, had their souls fled? That was the question which
presented itself to each and every one of the spectators.

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then fifteen, and then fifteen more, while the Professor and his pupil sat
stiff and stark upon the platform. During that time not a sound was heard from the assembled savants, but every eye was
bent upon the two pale faces, in search of the first signs of returning consciousness. Nearly an hour had elapsed
before the patient watchers were rewarded. A faint flush came back to the cheeks of Professor von Baumgarten. The soul
was coming back once more to its earthly tenement. Suddenly he stretched out his long thin arms, as one awaking from
sleep, and rubbing his eyes, stood up from his chair and gazed about him as though he hardly realised where he was.
“Tausend Teufel!” he exclaimed, rapping out a tremendous South German oath, to the great astonishment of his audience
and to the disgust of the Swedenborgian. “Where the Henker am I then, and what in thunder has occurred? Oh yes, I
remember now. One of these nonsensical mesmeric experiments. There is no result this time, for I remember nothing at
all since I became unconscious; so you have had all your long journeys for nothing, my learned friends, and a very good
joke too;” at which the Regius Professor of Physiology burst into a roar of laughter and slapped his thigh in a highly
indecorous fashion. The audience were so enraged at this unseemly behaviour on the part of their host, that there might
have been a considerable disturbance, had it not been for the judicious interference of young Fritz von Hartmann, who
had now recovered from his lethargy. Stepping to the front of the platform, the young man apologised for the conduct of
his companion. “I am sorry to say,” he said, “that he is a harum-scarum sort of fellow, although he appeared so grave
at the commencement of this experiment. He is still suffering from mesmeric reaction, and is hardly accountable for his
words. As to the experiment itself, I do not consider it to be a failure. It is very possible that our spirits may have
been communing in space during this hour; but, unfortunately, our gross bodily memory is distinct from our spirit, and
we cannot recall what has occurred. My energies shall now be devoted to devising some means by which spirits may be
able to recollect what occurs to them in their free state, and I trust that when I have worked this out, I may have the
pleasure of meeting you all once again in this hall, and demonstrating to you the result.” This address, coming from so
young a student, caused considerable astonishment among the audience, and some were inclined to be offended, thinking
that he assumed rather too much importance. The majority, however, looked upon him as a young man of great promise, and
many comparisons were made as they left the hall between his dignified conduct and the levity of his professor, who
during the above remarks was laughing heartily in a corner, by no means abashed at the failure of the experiment.

Now although all these learned men were filing out of the lecture-room under the impression that they had seen
nothing of note, as a matter of fact one of the most wonderful things in the whole history of the world had just
occurred before their very eyes Professor von Baumgarten had been so far correct in his theory that both his spirit and
that of his pupil had been for a time absent from his body. But here a strange and unforeseen complication had
occurred. In their return the spirit of Fritz von Hartmann had entered into the body of Alexis von Baumgarten, and that
of Alexis von Baumgarten had taken up its abode in the frame of Fritz von Hartmann. Hence the slang and scurrility
which issued from the lips of the serious Professor, and hence also the weighty words and grave statements which fell
from the careless student. It was an unprecedented event, yet no one knew of it, least of all those whom it
concerned.

The body of the Professor, feeling conscious suddenly of a great dryness about the back of the throat, sallied out
into the street, still chuckling to himself over the result of the experiment, for the soul of Fritz within was
reckless at the thought of the bride whom he had won so easily. His first impulse was to go up to the house and see
her, but on second thoughts he came to the conclusion that it would be best to stay away until Madame Baumgarten should
be informed by her husband of the agreement which had been made. He therefore made his way down to the Graner Mann,
which was one of the favourite trysting-places of the wilder students, and ran, boisterously waving his cane in the
air, into the little parlour, where sat Spiegler and Muller and half a dozen other boon companions.

“Ha, ha! my boys,” he shouted. “I knew I should find you here. Drink up, every one of you, and call for what you
like, for I’m going to stand treat today.”

Had the green man who is depicted upon the signpost of that well-known inn suddenly marched into the room and called
for a bottle of wine, the students could not have been more amazed than they were by this unexpected entry of their
revered professor. They were so astonished that for a minute or two they glared at him in utter bewilderment without
being able to make any reply to his hearty invitation.

“Donner und Blitzen!” shouted the Professor angrily. “What the deuce is the matter with you, then? You sit there
like a set of stuck pigs staring at me. What is it, then?”

“It is the unexpected honour,” stammered Spiegel, who was in the chair.

“Honour — rubbish!” said the Professor testily. “Do you think that just because I happen to have been exhibiting
mesmerism to a parcel of old fossils, I am therefore too proud to associate with dear old friends like you? Come out of
that chair, Spiegel my boy, for I shall preside now. Beer, or wine, or shnapps, my lads — call for what you like, and
put it all down to me.”

Never was there such an afternoon in the Gruner Mann. The foaming flagons of lager and the green-necked bottles of
Rhenish circulated merrily. By degrees the students lost their shyness in the presence of their Professor. As for him,
he shouted, he sang, he roared, he balanced a long tobacco-pipe upon his nose, and offered to run a hundred yards
against any member of the company. The Kellner and the barmaid whispered to each other outside the door their
astonishment at such proceedings on the part of a Regius Professor of the ancient university of Kleinplatz. They had
still more to whisper about afterwards, for the learned man cracked the Kellner’s crown, and kissed the barmaid behind
the kitchen door.

“Gentlemen,” said the Professor, standing up, albeit somewhat totteringly, at the end of the table, and balancing
his high old-fashioned wine glass in his bony hand, “I must now explain to you what is the cause of this
festivity.”

“Hear! hear!” roared the students, hammering their beer glasses against the table; “a speech, a speech!— silence for
a speech!”

“The fact is, my friends,” said the Professor, beaming through his spectacles, “I hope very soon to be married.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the Professor; “I can see, then, that you know all about my former difficulties. No, she is not
dead, but I have reason to believe that she will not oppose my marriage.”

“That is very accommodating of her,” remarked one of the company.

“In fact,” said the Professor, “I hope that she will now be induced to aid me in getting a wife. She and I never
took to each other very much; but now I hope all that may be ended, and when I marry she will come and stay with
me.”

“What a happy family!” exclaimed some wag.

“Yes, indeed; and I hope you will come to my wedding, all of you. I won’t mention names, but here is to my little
bride!” and the Professor waved his glass in the air.

“Here’s to his little bride!” roared the roysterers, with shouts of laughter. “Here’s her health. Sie soll leben —
Hoch!” And so the fun waxed still more fast and furious, while each young fellow followed the Professor’s example, and
drank a toast to the girl of his heart.

While all this festivity had been going on at the Graner Mann, a very different scene had been enacted elsewhere.
Young Fritz von Hartmann, with a solemn face and a reserved manner, had, after the experiment, consulted and adjusted
some mathematical instruments; after which, with a few peremptory words to the janitors, he had walked out into the
street and wended his way slowly in the direction of the house of the Professor. As he walked he saw Von Althaus, the
professor of anatomy, in front of him, and quickening his pace he overtook him.

“I say, Von Althaus,” he exclaimed, tapping him on the sleeve, “you were asking me for some information the other
day concerning the middle coat of the cerebral arteries. Now I find ——”

“Donnerwetter!” shouted Von Althaus, who was a peppery old fellow. “What the deuce do you mean by your impertinence!
I’ll have you up before the Academical Senate for this, sir;” with which threat he turned on his heel and hurried away.
Von Hartmann was much surprised at this reception. “It’s on account of this failure of my experiment,” he said to
himself, and continued moodily on his way.

Fresh surprises were in store for him, however. He was hurrying along when he was overtaken by two students. These
youths, instead of raising their caps or showing any other sign of respect, gave a wild whoop of deligilt the instant
that they saw him, and rushing at him, seized him by each arm and commenced dragging him along with them.

“Gott in himmel!” roared Von Hartmann. “What is the meaning of this unparalleled insult? Where are you taking
me?”

“To crack a bottle of wine with us,” said the two students. “Come along! That is an invitation which you have never
refused.”

“I never heard of such insolence in my life!” cried Von Hartmann. “Let go my arms! I shall certainly have you
rusticated for this. Let me go, I say!” and he kicked furiously at his captors.

“Oh, if you choose to turn ill-tempered, you may go where you like,” the students said, releasing him. “We can do
very well without you.”

“I know you. I’ll pay you out,” said Von Hartmann furiously, and continued in the direction which he imagined to be
his own home, much incensed at the two episodes which had occurred to him on the way.

Now, Madame von Baumgarten, who was looking out of the window and wondering why her husband was late for dinner, was
considerably astonished to see the young student come stalking down the road. As already remarked, she had a great
antipathy to him, and if ever he ventured into the house it was on sufferance, and under the protection of the
Professor. Still more astonished was she, therefore, when she beheld him undo the wicket-gate and stride up the garden
path with the air of one who is master of the situation.

She could hardly believe her eyes, and hastened to the door with all her maternal instincts up in arms. From the
upper windows the fair Elise had also observed this daring move upon the part of her lover, and her heart beat quick
with mingled pride and consternation.

“Good day, sir,” Madame Baumgarten remarked to the intruder, as she stood in gloomy majesty in the open doorway.

“A very fine day indeed, Martha,” returned the other. “Now, don’t stand there like a statue of Juno, but bustle
about and get the dinner ready, for I am well-nigh starved.”

“Martha! Dinner!” ejaculated the lady, falling back in astonishment.

“Yes, dinner, Martha, dinner!” howled Von Hartmann, who was becoming irritable. “Is there anything wonderful in that
request when a man has been out all day? I’ll wait in the dining-room. Anything will do. Schinken, and sausage, and
prunes — any little thing that happens to be about. There you are, standing staring again. Woman, will you or will you
not stir your legs?”

This last address, delivered with a perfect shriek of rage, had the effect of sending good Madame Baumgarten flying
along the passage and through the kitchen, where she locked herself up in the scullery and went into violent hysterics.
In the meantime Von Hartmann strode into the room and threw himself down upon the sofa in the worst of tempers.

“Elise!” he shouted. “Confound the girl! Elise!”

Thus roughly summoned, the young lady came timidly downstairs and into the presence of her lover. “Dearest!” she
cried, throwing her arms round him, “I know this is all done for my sake! It is a RUSE in order to see me.”

Von Hartmann’s indignation at this fresh attack upon him was so great that he became speechless for a minute from
rage, and could only glare and shake his fists, while he struggled in her embrace. When he at last regained his
utterance, he indulged in such a bellow of passion that the young lady dropped back, petrified with fear, into an
armchair.

“Never have I passed such a day in my life,” Von Hartmann cried, stamping upon the floor. “My experiment has failed.
Von Althaus has insulted me. Two students have dragged me along the public road. My wife nearly faints when I ask her
for dinner, and my daughter flies at me and hugs me like a grizzly bear.”

“You are ill, dear,” the young lady cried. “Your mind is wandering. You have not even kissed me once.”

“No, and I don’t intend to either,” Von Hartmann said with decision. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why don’t
you go and fetch my slippers, and help your mother to dish the dinner?”

“And is it for this,” Elise cried, burying her face in her handkerchief —“is it for this that I have loved you
passionately for upwards of ten months? Is it for this that I have braved my mother’s wrath? Oh, you have broken my
heart; I am sure you have!” and she sobbed hysterically.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” roared Von Hartmann furiously. “What the deuce does the girl mean? What did I do
ten months ago which inspired you with such a particular affection for me? If you are really so very fond, you would do
better to run away down and find the schinken and some bread, instead of talking all this nonsense.”

“Oh, my darling!” cried the unhappy maiden, throwing herself into the arms of what she imagined to be her lover,
“you do but joke in order to frighten your little Elise.”

Now it chanced that at the moment of this unexpected embrace Von Hartmann was still leaning back against the end of
the sofa, which, like much German furniture, was in a somewhat rickety condition. It also chanced that beneath this end
of the sofa there stood a tank full of water in which the physiologist was conducting certain experiments upon the ova
of fish, and which he kept in his drawing-room in order to insure an equable temperature. The additional weight of the
maiden, combined with the impetus with which she hurled herself upon him, caused the precarious piece of furniture to
give way, and the body of the unfortunate student was hurled backwards into the tank, in which his head and shoulders
were firmly wedged, while his lower extremities flapped helplessly about in the air. This was the last straw.
Extricating himself with some difficulty from his unpleasant position, Von Hartmann gave an inarticulate yell of fury,
and dashing out of the room, in spite of the entreaties of Elise, he seized his hat and rushed off into the town, all
dripping and dishevelled, with the intention of seeking in some inn the food and comfort which he could not find at
home.

As the spirit of Von Baumgarten encased in the body of Von Hartmann strode down the winding pathway which led down
to the little town, brooding angrily over his many wrongs, he became aware that an elderly man was approaching him who
appeared to be in an advanced state of intoxication. Von Hartmann waited by the side of the road and watched this
individual, who came stumbling along, reeling from one side of the road to the other, and singing a student song in a
very husky and drunken voice. At first his interest was merely excited by the fact of seeing a man of so venerable an
appearance in such a disgraceful condition, but as he approached nearer, he became convinced that he knew the other
well, though he could not recall when or where he had met him. This impression became so strong with him, that when the
stranger came abreast of him he stepped in front of him and took a good look at his features.

“Well, sonny,” said the drunken man, surveying Von Hartmann and swaying about in front of him, “where the Henker
have I seen you before? I know you as well as I know myself. Who the deuce are you?”

“I am Professor von Baumgarten,” said the student. “May I ask who you are? I am strangely familiar with your
features.”

“You should never tell lies, young man,” said the other. “You’re certainly not the Professor, for he is an ugly
snuffy old chap, and you are a big broad-shouldered young fellow. As to myself, I am Fritz von Hartmann at your
service.”

“That you certainly are not,” exclaimed the body of Von Hartmann. “You might very well be his father. But hullo,
sir, are you aware that you are wearing my studs and my watch-chain?”

“Donnerwetter!” hiccoughed the other. “If those are not the trousers for which my tailor is about to sue me, may I
never taste beer again.”

Now as Von Hartmann, overwhelmed by the many strange things which had occurred to him that day, passed his hand over
his forehead and cast his eyes downwards, he chanced to catch the reflection of his own face in a pool which the rain
had left upon the road. To his utter astonishment he perceived that his face was that of a youth, that his dress was
that of a fashionable young student, and that in every way he was the antithesis of the grave and scholarly figure in
which his mind was wont to dwell. In an instant his active brain ran over the series of events which had occurred and
sprang to the conclusion. He fairly reeled under the blow.

“Himmel!” he cried, “I see it all. Our souls are in the wrong bodies. I am you and you are I. My theory is proved —
but at what an expense! Is the most scholarly mind in Europe to go about with this frivolous exterior? Oh the labours
of a lifetime are ruined!” and he smote his breast in his despair.

“I say,” remarked the real Von Hartmann from the body of the Professor, “I quite see the force of your remarks, but
don’t go knocking my body about like that. You received it in excellent condition, but I perceive that you have wet it
and bruised it, and spilled snuff over my ruffled shirt-front.”

“It matters little,” the other said moodily. “Such as we are so must we stay. My theory is triumphantly proved, but
the cost is terrible.”

“If I thought so,” said the spirit of the student, “it would be hard indeed. What could I do with these stiff old
limbs, and how could I woo Elise and persuade her that I was not her father? No, thank Heaven, in spite of the beer
which has upset me more than ever it could upset my real self, I can see a way out of it.”

“How?” gasped the Professor.

“Why, by repeating the experiment. Liberate our souls once more, and the chances are that they will find their way
back into their respective bodies.”

No drowning man could clutch more eagerly at a straw than did Von Baumgarten’s spirit at this suggestion. In
feverish haste he dragged his own frame to the side of the road and threw it into a mesmeric trance; he then extracted
the crystal ball from the pocket, and managed to bring himself into the same condition.

Some students and peasants who chanced to pass during the next hour were much astonished to see the worthy Professor
of Physiology and his favourite student both sitting upon a very muddy bank and both completely insensible. Before the
hour was up quite a crowd had assembled, and they were discussing the advisability of sending for an ambulance to
convey the pair to hospital, when the learned savant opened his eyes and gazed vacantly around him. For an instant he
seemed to forget how he had come there, but next moment he astonished his audience by waving his skinny arms above his
head and crying out in a voice of rapture, “Gott sei gedanket! I am myself again. I feel I am!” Nor was the amazement
lessened when the student, springing to his feet, burst into the same cry, and the two performed a sort of pas de joie
in the middle of the road.

For some time after that people had some suspicion of the sanity of both the actors in this strange episode. When
the Professor published his experiences in the Medicalschrift as he had promised, he was met by an intimation, even
from his colleagues, that he would do well to have his mind cared for, and that another such publication would
certainly consign him to a madhouse. The student also found by experience that it was wisest to be silent about the
matter.

When the worthy lecturer returned home that night he did not receive the cordial welcome which he might have looked
for after his strange adventures. On the contrary, he was roundly upbraided by both his female relatives for smelling
of drink and tobacco, and also for being absent while a young scapegrace invaded the house and insulted its occupants.
It was long before the domestic atmosphere of the lecturer’s house resumed its normal quiet, and longer still before
the genial face of Von Hartmann was seen beneath its roof. Perseverance, however, conquers every obstacle, and the
student eventually succeeded in pacifying the enraged ladies and in establishing himself upon the old footing. He has
now no longer any cause to fear the enmity of Madame, for he is Hauptmann von Hartmann of the Emperor’s own Uhlans, and
his loving wife Elise has already presented him with two little Uhlans as a visible sign and token of her
affection.

The Man From Archangel

On the fourth day of March, in the year 1867, being at that time in my five-and-twentieth year, I
wrote down the following words in my note-book — the result of much mental perturbation and conflict:—

“The solar system, amidst a countless number of other systems as large as itself, rolls ever silently through space
in the direction of the constellation of Hercules. The great spheres of which it is composed spin and spin through the
eternal void ceaselessly and noiselessly. Of these one of the smallest and most insignificant is that conglomeration of
solid and of liquid particles which we have named the earth. It whirls onwards now as it has done before my birth, and
will do after my death — a revolving mystery, coming none know whence, and going none know whither. Upon the outer
crust of this moving mass crawl many mites, of whom I, John M’Vittie, am one, helpless, impotent, being dragged
aimlessly through space. Yet such is the state of things amongst us that the little energy and glimmering of reason
which I possess is entirely taken up with the labours which are necessary in order to procure certain metallic disks,
wherewith I may purchase the chemical elements necessary to build up my ever-wasting tissues, and keep a roof over me
to shelter me from the inclemency of the weather. I thus have no thought to expend upon the vital questions which
surround me on every side. Yet, miserable entity as I am, I can still at times feel some degree of happiness, and am
even — save the mark!— puffed up occasionally with a sense of my own importance.”

These words, as I have said, I wrote down in my note-book, and they reflected accurately the thoughts which I found
rooted far down in my soul, ever present and unaffected by the passing emotions of the hour. At last, however, came a
time when my uncle, M’Vittie of Glencairn, died — the same who was at one time chairman of committees of the House of
Commons. He divided his great wealth among his many nephews, and I found myself with sufficient to provide amply for my
wants during the remainder of my life, and became at the same time owner of a bleak tract of land upon the coast of
Caithness, which I think the old man must have bestowed upon me in derision, for it was sandy and valueless, and he had
ever a grim sense of humour. Up to this time I had been an attorney in a midland town in England. Now I saw that I
could put my thoughts into effect, and, leaving all petty and sordid aims, could elevate my mind by the study of the
secrets of nature. My departure from my English home was somewhat accelerated by the fact that I had nearly slain a man
in a quarrel, for my temper was fiery, and I was apt to forget my own strength when enraged. There was no legal action
taken in the matter, but the papers yelped at me, and folk looked askance when I met them. It ended by my cursing them
and their vile, smoke-polluted town, and hurrying to my northern possession, where I might at last find peace and an
opportunity for solitary study and contemplation. I borrowed from my capital before I went, and so was able to take
with me a choice collection of the most modern philosophical instruments and books, together with chemicals and such
other things as I might need in my retirement.

The land which I had inherited was a narrow strip, consisting mostly of sand, and extending for rather over two
miles round the coast of Mansie Bay, in Caithness. Upon this strip there had been a rambling, grey-stone building —
when erected or wherefore none could tell me — and this I had repaired, so that it made a dwelling quite good enough
for one of my simple tastes. One room was my laboratory, another my sitting-room, and in a third, just under the
sloping roof, I slung the hammock in which I always slept. There were three other rooms, but I left them vacant, except
one which was given over to the old crone who kept house for me. Save the Youngs and the M’Leods, who were fisher-folk
living round at the other side of Fergus Ness, there were no other people for many miles in each direction. In front of
the house was the great bay, behind it were two long barren hills, capped by other loftier ones beyond. There was a
glen between the hills, and when the wind was from the land it used to sweep down this with a melancholy sough and
whisper among the branches of the fir-trees beneath my attic window.

I dislike my fellow-mortals. Justice compels me to add that they appear for the most part to dislike me. I hate
their little crawling ways, their conventionalities, their deceits, their narrow rights and wrongs. They take offence
at my brusque outspokenness, my disregard for their social laws, my impatience of all constraint. Among my books and my
drugs in my lonely den at Mansie I could let the great drove of the human race pass onwards with their politics and
inventions and tittle-tattle, and I remained behind stagnant and happy. Not stagnant either, for I was working in my
own little groove, and making progress. I have reason to believe that Dalton’s atomic theory is founded upon error, and
I know that mercury is not an element.

During the day I was busy with my distillations and analyses. Often I forgot my meals, and when old Madge summoned
me to my tea I found my dinner lying untouched upon the table. At night I read Bacon, Descartes, Spinoza, Kant — all
those who have pried into what is unknowable. They are all fruitless and empty, barren of result, but prodigal of
polysyllables, reminding me of men who, while digging for gold, have turned up many worms, and then exhibit them
exultantly as being what they sought. At times a restless spirit would come upon me, and I would walk thirty and forty
miles without rest or breaking fast. On these occasions, when I used to stalk through the country villages, gaunt,
unshaven, and dishevelled, the mothers would rush into the road and drag their children indoors, and the rustics would
swarm out of their pot-houses to gaze at me. I believe that I was known far and wide as the “mad laird o’ Mansie.” It
was rarely, however, that I made these raids into the country, for I usually took my exercise upon my own beach, where
I soothed my spirit with strong black tobacco, and made the ocean my friend and my confidant.

What companion is there like the great restless, throbbing sea? What human mood is there which it does not match and
sympathise with? There are none so gay but that they may feel gayer when they listen to its merry turmoil, and see the
long green surges racing in, with the glint of the sunbeams in their sparkling crests. But when the grey waves toss
their heads in anger, and the wind screams above them, goading them on to madder and more tumultuous efforts, then the
darkest-minded of men feels that there is a melancholy principle in Nature which is as gloomy as his own thoughts. When
it was calm in the Bay of Mansie the surface would be as clear and bright as a sheet of silver, broken only at one spot
some little way from the shore, where a long black line projected out of the water looking like the jagged back of some
sleeping monster. This was the top of the dangerous ridge of rocks known to the fishermen as the “ragged reef o’
Mansie.” When the wind blew from the east the waves would break upon it like thunder, and the spray would be tossed far
over my house and up to the hills behind. The bay itself was a bold and noble one, but too much exposed to the northern
and eastern gales, and too much dreaded for its reef, to be much used by mariners. There was something of romance about
this lonely spot. I have lain in my boat upon a calm day, and peering over the edge I have seen far down the
flickering, ghostly forms of great fish — fish, as it seemed to me, such as naturalist never knew, and which my
imagination transformed into the genii of that desolate bay. Once, as I stood by the brink of the waters upon a quiet
night, a great cry, as of a woman in hopeless grief, rose from the bosom of the deep, and swelled out upon the still
air, now sinking and now rising, for a space of thirty seconds. This I heard with my own ears.

In this strange spot, with the eternal hills behind me and the eternal sea in front, I worked and brooded for more
than two years unpestered by my fellow men. By degrees I had trained my old servant into habits of silence, so that she
now rarely opened her lips, though I doubt not that when twice a year she visited her relations in Wick, her tongue
during those few days made up for its enforced rest. I had come almost to forget that I was a member of the human
family, and to live entirely with the dead whose books I pored over, when a sudden incident occurred which threw all my
thoughts into a new channel.

Three rough days in June had been succeeded by one calm and peaceful one. There was not a breath of air that
evening. The sun sank down in the west behind a line of purple clouds, and the smooth surface of the bay was gashed
with scarlet streaks. Along the beach the pools left by the tide showed up like gouts of blood against the yellow sand,
as if some wounded giant had toilfully passed that way, and had left these red traces of his grievous hurt behind him.
As the darkness closed in, certain ragged clouds which had lain low on the eastern horizon coalesced and formed a great
irregular cumulus. The glass was still low, and I knew that there was mischief brewing. About nine o’clock a dull
moaning sound came up from the sea, as from a creature who, much harassed, learns that the hour of suffering has come
round again. At ten a sharp breeze sprang up from the eastward. At eleven it had increased to a gale, and by midnight
the most furious storm was raging which I ever remember upon that weather-beaten coast.

As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against my attic window, and the wind was screaming as
though every gust were a lost soul. By that time the sounds of the tempest had become a lullaby to me. I knew that the
grey walls of the old house would buffet it out, and for what occurred in the world outside I had small concern. Old
Madge was usually as callous to such things as I was myself. It was a surprise to me when, about three in the morning,
I was awoke by the sound of a great knocking at my door and excited cries in the wheezy voice of my house-keeper. I
sprang out of my hammock, and roughly demanded of her what was the matter.

“Eh, maister, maister!” she screamed in her hateful dialect. “Come doun, mun; come doun! There’s a muckle ship gaun
ashore on the reef, and the puir folks are a’ yammerin’ and ca’in’ for help — and I doobt they’ll a’ be drooned. Oh,
Maister M’Vittie, come doun!”

“Hold your tongue, you hag!” I shouted back in a passion. “What is it to you whether they are drowned or not? Get
back to your bed and leave me alone.” I turned in again and drew the blankets over me. “Those men out there,” I said to
myself, “have already gone through half the horrors of death. If they be saved they will but have to go through the
same once more in the space of a few brief years. It is best therefore that they should pass away now, since they have
suffered that anticipation which is more than the pain of dissolution.” With this thought in my mind I endeavoured to
compose myself to sleep once more, for that philosophy which had taught me to consider death as a small and trivial
incident in man’s eternal and everchanging career, had also broken me of much curiosity concerning worldly matters. On
this occasion I found, however, that the old leaven still fermented strongly in my soul. I tossed from side to side for
some minutes endeavouring to beat down the impulses of the moment by the rules of conduct which I had framed during
months of thought. Then I heard a dull roar amid the wild shriek of the gale, and I knew that it was the sound of a
signal-gun. Driven by an uncontrollable impulse, I rose, dressed, and having lit my pipe, walked out on to the
beach.

It was pitch dark when I came outside, and the wind blew with such violence that I had to put my shoulder against it
and push my way along the shingle. My face pringled and smarted with the sting of the gravel which was blown against
it, and the red ashes of my pipe streamed away behind me, dancing fantastically through the darkness. I went down to
where the great waves were thundering in, and shading my eyes with my hands to keep off the salt spray, I peered out to
sea. I could distinguish nothing, and yet it seemed to me that shouts and great inarticulate cries were borne to me by
the blasts. Suddenly as I gazed I made out the glint of a light, and then the whole bay and the beach were lit up in a
moment by a vivid blue glare. They were burning a coloured signal-light on board of the vessel. There she lay on her
beam ends right in the centre of the jagged reef, hurled over to such an angle that I could see all the planking of her
deck. She was a large two-masted schooner, of foreign rig, and lay perhaps a hundred and eighty or two hundred yards
from the shore. Every spar and rope and writhing piece of cordage showed up hard and clear under the livid light which
sputtered and flickered from the highest portion of the forecastle. Beyond the doomed ship out of the great darkness
came the long rolling lines of black waves, never ending, never tiring, with a petulant tuft of foam here and there
upon their crests. Each as it reached the broad circle of unnatural light appeared to gather strength and volume, and
to hurry on more impetuously until, with a roar and a jarring crash, it sprang upon its victim. Clinging to the weather
shrouds I could distinctly see some ten or twelve frightened seamen, who, when their light revealed my presence, turned
their white faces towards me and waved their hands imploringly. I felt my gorge rise against these poor cowering worms.
Why should they presume to shirk the narrow pathway along which all that is great and noble among mankind has
travelled? There was one there who interested me more than they. He was a tall man, who stood apart from the others,
balancing himself upon the swaying wreck as though he disdained to cling to rope or bulwark. His hands were clasped
behind his back and his head was sunk upon his breast, but even in that despondent attitude there was a litheness and
decision in his pose and in every motion which marked him as a man little likely to yield to despair. Indeed, I could
see by his occasional rapid glances up and down and all around him that he was weighing every chance of safety, but
though he often gazed across the raging surf to where he could see my dark figure upon the beach, his self-respect or
some other reason forbade him from imploring my help in any way. He stood, dark, silent, and inscrutable, looking down
on the black sea, and waiting for whatever fortune Fate might send him.

It seemed to me that that problem would very soon be settled. As I looked, an enormous billow, topping all the
others, and coming after them, like a driver following a flock, swept over the vessel. Her foremast snapped short off,
and the men who clung to the shrouds were brushed away like a swarm of flies. With a rending, riving sound the ship
began to split in two, where the sharp back of the Mansie reef was sawing into her keel. The solitary man upon the
forecastle ran rapidly across the deck and seized hold of a white bundle which I had already observed but failed to
make out. As he lifted it up the light fell upon it, and I saw that the object was a woman, with a spar lashed across
her body and under her arms in such a way that her head should always rise above water. He bore her tenderly to the
side and seemed to speak for a minute or so to her, as though explaining the impossibility of remaining upon the ship.
Her answer was a singular one. I saw her deliberately raise her hand and strike him across the face with it. He
appeared to be silenced for a moment or so by this, but he addressed her again, directing her, as far as I could gather
from his motions, how she should behave when in the water. She shrank away from him, but he caught her in his arms. He
stooped over her for a moment and seemed to press his lips against her forehead. Then a great wave came welling up
against the side of the breaking vessel, and leaning over he placed her upon the summit of it as gently as a child
might be committed to its cradle. I saw her white dress flickering among the foam on the crest of the dark billow, and
then the light sank gradually lower, and the riven ship and its lonely occupant were hidden from my eyes.

As I watched those things my manhood overcame my philosophy, and I felt a frantic impulse to be up and doing. I
threw my cynicism to one side as a garment which I might don again at leisure, and I rushed wildly to my boat and my
sculls. She was a leaky tub, but what then? Was I, who had cast many a wistful, doubtful glance at my opium bottle, to
begin now to weigh chances and to cavil at danger. I dragged her down to the sea with the strength of a maniac and
sprang in. For a moment or two it was a question whether she could live among the boiling surge, but a dozen frantic
strokes took me through it, half full of water but still afloat. I was out on the unbroken waves now, at one time
climbing, climbing up the broad black breast of one, then sinking down, down on the other side, until looking up I
could see the gleam of the foam all around me against the dark heavens. Far behind me I could hear the wild wailings of
old Madge, who, seeing me start, thought no doubt that my madness had come to a climax. As I rowed I peered over my
shoulder, until at last on the belly of a great wave which was sweeping towards me I distinguished the vague white
outline of the woman. Stooping over, I seized her as she swept by me, and with an effort lifted her, all sodden with
water, into the boat. There was no need to row back, for the next billow carried us in and threw us upon the beach. I
dragged the boat out of danger, and then lifting up the woman I carried her to the house, followed by my housekeeper,
loud with congratulation and praise.

Now that I had done this thing a reaction set in upon me. I felt that my burden lived, for I heard the faint beat of
her heart as I pressed my ear against her side in carrying her. Knowing this, I threw her down beside the fire which
Madge had lit, with as little sympathy as though she had been a bundle of fagots. I never glanced at her to see if she
were fair or no. For many years I had cared little for the face of a woman. As I lay in my hammock upstairs, however, I
heard the old woman as she chafed the warmth back into her, crooning a chorus of, “Eh, the puir lassie! Eh, the bonnie
lassie!” from which I gathered that this piece of jetsam was both young and comely.

The morning after the gale was peaceful and sunny. As I walked along the long sweep of sand I could hear the panting
of the sea. It was heaving and swirling about the reef, but along the shore it rippled in gently enough. There was no
sign of the schooner, nor was there any wreckage upon the beach, which did not surprise me, as I knew there was a great
undertow in those waters. A couple of broad-winged gulls were hovering and skimming over the scene of the shipwreck, as
though many strange things were visible to them beneath the waves. At times I could hear their raucous voices as they
spoke to one another of what they saw.

When I came back from my walk the woman was waiting at the door for me. I began to wish when I saw her that I had
never saved her, for here was an end of my privacy. She was very young — at the most nineteen, with a pale somewhat
refined face, yellow hair, merry blue eyes, and shining teeth. Her beauty was of an ethereal type. She looked so white
and light and fragile that she might have been the spirit of that storm-foam from out of which I plucked her. She had
wreathed some of Madge’s garments round her in a way which was quaint and not unbecoming. As I strode heavily up the
pathway, she put out her hands with a pretty child-like gesture, and ran down towards me, meaning, as I surmise, to
thank me for having saved her, but I put her aside with a wave of my hand and passed her. At this she seemed somewhat
hurt, and the tears sprang into her eyes, but she followed me into the sitting-room and watched me wistfully. “What
country do you come from?” I asked her suddenly.

She smiled when I spoke, but shook her head.

“Francais?” I asked. “Deutsch?” “Espagnol?”— each time she shook her head, and then she rippled off into a long
statement in some tongue of which I could not understand one word.

After breakfast was over, however, I got a clue to her nationality.

Passing along the beach once more, I saw that in a cleft of the ridge a piece of wood had been jammed. I rowed out
to it in my boat, and brought it ashore. It was part of the sternpost of a boat, and on it, or rather on the piece of
wood attached to it, was the word “Archangel,” painted in strange, quaint lettering.

“So,” I thought, as I paddled slowly back, “this pale damsel is a Russian. A fit subject for the White Czar and a
proper dweller on the shores of the White Sea!” It seemed to me strange that one of her apparent refinement should
perform so long a journey in so frail a craft. When I came back into the house, I pronounced the word “Archangel”
several times in different intonations, but she did not appear to recognise it.

I shut myself up in the laboratory all the morning, continuing a research which I was making upon the nature of the
allotropic forms of carbon and of sulphur. When I came out at mid-day for some food she was sitting by the table with a
needle and thread, mending some rents in her clothes, which were now dry. I resented her continued presence, but I
could not turn her out on the beach to shift for herself. Presently she presented a new phase of her character.
Pointing to herself and then to the scene of the shipwreck, she held up one finger, by which I understood her to be
asking whether she was the only one saved. I nodded my head to indicate that she was. On this she sprang out of the
chair with a cry of great joy, and holding the garment which she was mending over her head, and swaying it from side to
side with the motion of her body, she danced as lightly as a feather all round the room, and then out through the open
door into the sunshine. As she whirled round she sang in a plaintive shrill voice some uncouth barbarous chant,
expressive of exultation. I called out to her, “Come in, you young fiend, come in and be silent!” but she went on with
her dance. Then she suddenly ran towards me, and catching my hand before I could pluck it away, she kissed it. While we
were at dinner she spied one of my pencils, and taking it up she wrote the two words “Sophie Ramusine” upon a piece of
paper, and then pointed to herself as a sign that that was her name. She handed the pencil to me, evidently expecting
that I would be equally communicative, but I put it in my pocket as a sign that I wished to hold no intercourse with
her.

Every moment of my life now I regretted the unguarded precipitancy with which I had saved this woman. What was it to
me whether she had lived or died? I was no young, hot-headed youth to do such things. It was bad enough to be compelled
to have Madge in the house, but she was old and ugly, and could be ignored. This one was young and lively, and so
fashioned as to divert attention from graver things. Where could I send her, and what could I do with her? If I sent
information to Wick it would mean that officials and others would come to me and pry, and peep, and chatter — a hateful
thought. It was better to endure her presence than that.

I soon found that there were fresh troubles in store for me. There is no place safe from the swarming, restless race
of which I am a member. In the evening, when the sun was dipping down behind the hills, casting them into dark shadow,
but gilding the sands and casting a great glory over the sea, I went, as is my custom, for a stroll along the beach.
Sometimes on these occasions I took my book with me. I did so on this night, and stretching myself upon a sand-dune I
composed myself to read. As I lay there I suddenly became aware of a shadow which interposed itself between the sun and
myself. Looking round, I saw to my great surprise a very tall, powerful man, who was standing a few yards off, and who,
instead of looking at me, was ignoring my existence completely, and was gazing over my head with a stern set face at
the bay and the black line of the Mansie reef. His complexion was dark, with black hair, and short, curling beard, a
hawk-like nose, and golden earrings in his ears — the general effect being wild and somewhat noble. He wore a faded
velveteen jacket, a red-flannel shirt, and high sea boots, coming half-way up his thighs. I recognised him at a glance
as being the same man who had been left on the wreck the night before.

“Hullo!” I said, in an aggrieved voice. “You got ashore all right, then?”

“Yes,” he answered, in good English. “It was no doing of mine. The waves threw me up. I wish to God I had been
allowed to drown!”

There was a slight foreign lisp in his accent which was rather pleasing. “Two good fishermen, who live round yonder
point, pulled me out and cared for me; yet I could not honestly thank them for it.”

“Ho! ho!” thought I, “here is a man of my own kidney. Why do you wish to be drowned?” I asked.

“Because,” he cried, throwing out his long arms with a passionate, despairing gesture, “there — there in that blue
smiling bay, lies my soul, my treasure — everything that I loved and lived for.”

“Well, well,” I said. “People are ruined every day, but there’s no use making a fuss about it. Let me inform you
that this ground on which you walk is my ground, and that the sooner you take yourself off it the better pleased I
shall be. One of you is quite trouble enough.”

“One of us?” he gasped.

“Yes — if you could take her off with you I should be still more grateful.”

He gazed at me for a moment as if hardly able to realise what I said, and then with a wild cry he ran away from me
with prodigious speed and raced along the sands towards my house. Never before or since have I seen a human being run
so fast. I followed as rapidly as I could, furious at this threatened invasion, but long before I reached the house he
had disappeared through the open door. I heard a great scream from the inside, and as I came nearer the sound of a
man’s bass voice speaking rapidly and loudly. When I looked in the girl, Sophie Ramusine, was crouching in a corner,
cowering away, with fear and loathing expressed on her averted face and in every line of her shrinking form. The other,
with his dark eyes flashing, and his outstretched hands quivering with emotion, was pouring forth a torrent of
passionate pleading words. He made a step forward to her as I entered, but she writhed still further away, and uttered
a sharp cry like that of a rabbit when the weasel has him by the throat.

“Here!” I said, pulling him back from her. “This is a pretty to-do! What do you mean? Do you think this is a wayside
inn or place of public accommodation?”

“Oh, sir,” he said, “excuse me. This woman is my wife, and I feared that she was drowned. You have brought me back
to life.”

“Who are you?” I asked roughly.

“I am a man from Archangel,” he said simply; “a Russian man.”

“What is your name?”

“Ourganeff.”

“Ourganeff!— and hers is Sophie Ramusine. She is no wife of yours. She has no ring.”

“We are man and wife in the sight of Heaven,” he said solemnly, looking upwards. “We are bound by higher laws than
those of earth.” As he spoke the girl slipped behind me and caught me by the other hand, pressing it as though
beseeching my protection. “Give me up my wife, sir,” he went on. “Let me take her away from here.”

“Look here, you — whatever your name is,” I said sternly; “I don’t want this wench here. I wish I had never seen
her. If she died it would be no grief to me. But as to handing her over to you, when it is clear she fears and hates
you, I won’t do it. So now just clear your great body out of this, and leave me to my books. I hope I may never look
upon your face again.”

“You won’t give her up to me?” he said hoarsely.

“I’ll see you damned first!” I answered.

“Suppose I take her,” he cried, his dark face growing darker.

All my tigerish blood flushed up in a moment. I picked up a billet of wood from beside the fireplace. “Go,” I said,
in a low voice; “go quick, or I may do you an injury.” He looked at me irresolutely for a moment, and then he left the
house. He came back again in a moment, however, and stood in the doorway looking in at us.

“Have a heed what you do,” he said. “The woman is mine, and I shall have her. When it comes to blows, a Russian is
as good a man as a Scotchman.”

“We shall see that,” I cried, springing forward, but he was already gone, and I could see his tall form moving away
through the gathering darkness.

For a month or more after this things went smoothly with us. I never spoke to the Russian girl, nor did she ever
address me. Sometimes when I was at work in my laboratory she would slip inside the door and sit silently there
watching me with her great eyes. At first this intrusion annoyed me, but by degrees, finding that she made no attempt
to distract my attention, I suffered her to remain. Encouraged by this concession, she gradually came to move the stool
on which she sat nearer and nearer to my table, until after gaining a little every day during some weeks, she at last
worked her way right up to me, and used to perch herself beside me whenever I worked. In this position she used, still
without ever obtruding her presence in any way, to make herself very useful by holding my pens, test-tubes, or bottles,
and handing me whatever I wanted, with never-failing sagacity. By ignoring the fact of her being a human being, and
looking upon her as a useful automatic machine, I accustomed myself to her presence so far as to miss her on the few
occasions when she was not at her post. I have a habit of talking aloud to myself at times when I work, so as to fix my
results better in my mind. The girl must have had a surprising memory for sounds, for she could always repeat the words
which I let fall in this way, without, of course, understanding in the least what they meant. I have often been amused
at hearing her discharge a volley of chemical equations and algebraic symbols at old Madge, and then burst into a
ringing laugh when the crone would shake her head, under the impression, no doubt, that she was being addressed in
Russian.

She never went more than a few yards from the house, and indeed never put her foot over the threshold without
looking carefully out of each window in order to be sure that there was nobody about. By this I knew that she suspected
that her fellow-countryman was still in the neighbourhood, and feared that he might attempt to carry her off. She did
something else which was significant. I had an old revolver with some cartridges, which had been thrown away among the
rubbish. She found this one day, and at once proceeded to clean it and oil it. She hung it up near the door, with the
cartridges in a little bag beside it, and whenever I went for a walk, she would take it down and insist upon my
carrying it with me. In my absence she would always bolt the door. Apart from her apprehensions she seemed fairly
happy, busying herself in helping Madge when she was not attending upon me. She was wonderfully nimble-fingered and
natty in all domestic duties.

It was not long before I discovered that her suspicions were well founded, and that this man from Archangel was
still lurking in the vicinity. Being restless one night I rose and peered out of the window. The weather was somewhat
cloudy, and I could barely make out the line of the sea, and the loom of my boat upon the beach. As I gazed, however,
and my eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, I became aware that there was some other dark blur upon the sands, and
that in front of my very door, where certainly there had been nothing of the sort the preceding night. As I stood at my
diamond-paned lattice still peering and peeping to make out what this might be, a great bank of clouds rolled slowly
away from the face of the moon, and a flood of cold, clear light was poured down upon the silent bay and the long sweep
of its desolate shores. Then I saw what this was which haunted my doorstep. It was he, the Russian. He squatted there
like a gigantic toad, with his legs doubled under him in strange Mongolian fashion, and his eyes fixed apparently upon
the window of the room in which the young girl and the housekeeper slept. The light fell upon his upturned face, and I
saw once more the hawk-like grace of his countenance, with the single deeply-indented line of care upon his brow, and
the protruding beard which marks the passionate nature. My first impulse was to shoot him as a trespasser, but, as I
gazed, my resentment changed into pity and contempt. “Poor fool,” I said to myself, “is it then possible that you, whom
I have seen looking open-eyed at present death, should have your whole thoughts and ambition centred upon this wretched
slip of a girl — a girl, too, who flies from you and hates you. Most women would love you — were it but for that dark
face and great handsome body of yours — and yet you must needs hanker after the one in a thousand who will have no
traffic with you.” As I returned to my bed I chuckled much to myself over this thought. I knew that my bars were strong
and my bolts thick. It mattered little to me whether this strange man spent his night at my door or a hundred leagues
off, so long as he was gone by the morning. As I expected, when I rose and went out there was no sign of him, nor had
he left any trace of his midnight vigil.

It was not long, however, before I saw him again. I had been out for a row one morning, for my head was aching,
partly from prolonged stooping, and partly from the effects of a noxious drug which I had inhaled the night before. I
pulled along the coast some miles, and then, feeling thirsty, I landed at a place where I knew that a fresh water
stream trickled down into the sea. This rivulet passed through my land, but the mouth of it, where I found myself that
day, was beyond my boundary line. I felt somewhat taken aback when rising from the stream at which I had slaked my
thirst I found myself face to face with the Russian. I was as much a trespasser now as he was, and I could see at a
glance that he knew it.

“I wish to speak a few words to you,” he said gravely.

“Hurry up, then!” I answered, glancing at my watch. “I have no time to listen to chatter.”

“Chatter!” he repeated angrily. “Ah, but there. You Scotch people are strange men. Your face is hard and your words
rough, but so are those of the good fishermen with whom I stay, yet I find that beneath it all there lie kind honest
natures. No doubt you are kind and good, too, in spite of your roughness.”

“In the name of the devil,” I said, “say your say, and go your way. I am weary of the sight of you.”

“Can I not soften you in any way?” he cried. “Ah, see — see here”— he produced a small Grecian cross from inside his
velvet jacket. “Look at this. Our religions may differ in form, but at least we have some common thoughts and feelings
when we see this emblem.”

“I am not so sure of that,” I answered.

He looked at me thoughtfully.

“You are a very strange man,” he said at last. “I cannot understand you. You still stand between me and Sophie. It
is a dangerous position to take, sir. Oh, believe me, before it is too late. If you did but know what I have done to
gain that woman — how I have risked my body, how I have lost my soul! You are a small obstacle to some which I have
surmounted — you, whom a rip with a knife, or a blow from a stone, would put out of my way for ever. But God preserve
me from that,” he cried wildly. “I am deep — too deep — already. Anything rather than that.”

“You would do better to go back to your country,” I said, “than to skulk about these sand-hills and disturb my
leisure. When I have proof that you have gone away I shall hand this woman over to the protection of the Russian Consul
at Edinburgh. Until then, I shall guard her myself, and not you, nor any Muscovite that ever breathed, shall take her
from me.”

“And what is your object in keeping me from Sophie?” he asked. “Do you imagine that I would injure her? Why, man, I
would give my life freely to save her from the slightest harm. Why do you do this thing?”

“I do it because it is my good pleasure to act so,” I answered. “I give no man reasons for my conduct.”

“Look here!” he cried, suddenly blazing into fury, and advancing towards me with his shaggy mane bristling and his
brown hands clenched. “If I thought you had one dishonest thought towards this girl — if for a moment I had reason to
believe that you had any base motive for detaining her — as sure as there is a God in Heaven I should drag the heart
out of your bosom with my hands.” The very idea seemed to have put the man in a frenzy, for his face was all distorted
and his hands opened and shut convulsively. I thought that he was about to spring at my throat.

He put his hand into his pocket, and for a moment I thought he was about to produce a weapon too, but instead of
that he whipped out a cigarette and lit it, breathing the smoke rapidly into his lungs.

No doubt he had found by experience that this was the most effectual way of curbing his passions.

“I told you,” he said in a quieter voice, “that my name is Ourganeff — Alexis Ourganeff. I am a Finn by birth, but I
have spent my life in every part of the world. I was one who could never be still, nor settle down to a quiet
existence. After I came to own my own ship there is hardly a port from Archangel to Australia which I have not entered.
I was rough and wild and free, but there was one at home, sir, who was prim and white-handed and soft-tongued, skilful
in little fancies and conceits which women love. This youth by his wiles and tricks stole from me the love of the girl
whom I had ever marked as my own, and who up to that time had seemed in some sort inclined to return my passion. I had
been on a voyage to Hammerfest for ivory, and coming back unexpectedly I learned that my pride and treasure was to be
married to this soft-skinned boy, and that the party had actually gone to the church. In such moments, sir, something
gives way in my head, and I hardly know what I do. I landed with a boat’s crew — all men who had sailed with me for
years, and who were as true as steel. We went up to the church. They were standing, she and he, before the priest, but
the thing had not been done. I dashed between them and caught her round the waist. My men beat back the frightened
bridegroom and the lookers on. We bore her down to the boat and aboard our vessel, and then getting up anchor we sailed
away across the White Sea until the spires of Archangel sank down behind the horizon. She had my cabin, my room, every
comfort. I slept among the men in the forecastle. I hoped that in time her aversion to me would wear away, and that she
would consent to marry me in England or in France. For days and days we sailed. We saw the North Cape die away behind
us, and we skirted the grey Norwegian coast, but still, in spite of every attention, she would not forgive me for
tearing her from that pale-faced lover of hers. Then came this cursed storm which shattered both my ship and my hopes,
and has deprived me even of the sight of the woman for whom I have risked so much. Perhaps she may learn to love me
yet. You, sir,” he said wistfully, “look like one who has seen much of the world. Do you not think that she may come to
forget this man and to love me?”

“I am tired of your story,” I said, turning away. “For my part, I think you are a great fool. If you imagine that
this love of yours will pass away you had best amuse yourself as best you can until it does. If, on the other hand, it
is a fixed thing, you cannot do better than cut your throat, for that is the shortest way out of it. I have no more
time to waste on the matter.” With this I hurried away and walked down to the boat. I never looked round, but I heard
the dull sound of his feet upon the sands as he followed me.

“I have told you the beginning of my story,” he said, “and you shall know the end some day. You would do well to let
the girl go.”

I never answered him, but pushed the boat off. When I had rowed some distance out I looked back and saw his tall
figure upon the yellow sand as he stood gazing thoughtfully after me. When I looked again some minutes later he had
disappeared.

For a long time after this my life was as regular and as monotonous as it had been before the shipwreck. At times I
hoped that the man from Archangel had gone away altogether, but certain footsteps which I saw upon the sand, and more
particularly a little pile of cigarette ash which I found one day behind a hillock from which a view of the house might
be obtained, warned me that, though invisible, he was still in the vicinity. My relations with the Russian girl
remained the same as before. Old Madge had been somewhat jealous of her presence at first, and seemed to fear that what
little authority she had would be taken away from her. By degrees, however, as she came to realise my utter
indifference, she became reconciled to the situation, and, as I have said before, profited by it, as our visitor
performed much of the domestic work.

And now I am coming near the end of this narrative of mine, which I have written a great deal more for my own
amusement than for that of any one else. The termination of the strange episode in which these two Russians had played
a part was as wild and as sudden as the commencement. The events of one single night freed me from all my troubles, and
left me once more alone with my books and my studies, as I had been before their intrusion. Let me endeavour to
describe how this came about.

I had had a long day of heavy and wearying work, so that in the evening I determined upon taking a long walk. When I
emerged from the house my attention was attracted by the appearance of the sea. It lay like a sheet of glass, so that
never a ripple disturbed its surface. Yet the air was filled with that indescribable moaning sound which I have alluded
to before — a sound as though the spirits of all those who lay beneath those treacherous waters were sending a sad
warning of coming troubles to their brethren in the flesh. The fishermen’s wives along that coast know the eerie sound,
and look anxiously across the waters for the brown sails making for the land. When I heard it I stepped back into the
house and looked at the glass. It was down below 29 degrees. Then I knew that a wild night was coming upon us.

Underneath the hills where I walked that evening it was dull and chill, but their summits were rosy-red, and the sea
was brightened by the sinking sun. There were no clouds of importance in the sky, yet the dull groaning of the sea grew
louder and stronger. I saw, far to the eastward, a brig beating up for Wick, with a reef in her topsails. It was
evident that her captain had read the signs of nature as I had done. Behind her a long, lurid haze lay low upon the
water, concealing the horizon. “I had better push on,” I thought to myself, “or the wind may rise before I can get
back.”

I suppose I must have been at least half a mile from the house when I suddenly stopped and listened breathlessly. My
ears were so accustomed to the noises of nature, the sighing of the breeze and the sob of the waves, that any other
sound made itself heard at a great distance. I waited, listening with all my ears. Yes, there it was again — a
long-drawn, shrill cry of despair, ringing over the sands and echoed back from the hills behind me — a piteous appeal
for aid. It came from the direction of my house. I turned and ran back homewards at the top of my speed, ploughing
through the sand, racing over the shingle. In my mind there was a great dim perception of what had occurred.

About a quarter of a mile from the house there is a high sand-hill, from which the whole country round is visible.
When I reached the top of this I paused for a moment. There was the old grey building — there the boat. Everything
seemed to be as I had left it. Even as I gazed, however, the shrill scream was repeated, louder than before, and the
next moment a tall figure emerged from my door, the figure of the Russian sailor. Over his shoulder was the white form
of the young girl, and even in his haste he seemed to bear her tenderly and with gentle reverence. I could hear her
wild cries and see her desperate struggles to break away from him. Behind the couple came my old housekeeper, staunch
and true, as the aged dog, who can no longer bite, still snarls with toothless gums at the intruder. She staggered
feebly along at the heels of the ravisher, waving her long, thin arms, and hurling, no doubt, volleys of Scotch curses
and imprecations at his head. I saw at a glance that he was making for the boat. A sudden hope sprang up in my soul
that I might be in time to intercept him. I ran for the beach at the top of my speed. As I ran I slipped a cartridge
into my revolver. This I determined should be the last of these invasions.

I was too late. By the time I reached the water’s edge he was a hundred yards away, making the boat spring with
every stroke of his powerful arms. I uttered a wild cry of impotent anger, and stamped up and down the sands like a
maniac. He turned and saw me. Rising from his seat he made me a graceful bow, and waved his hand to me. It was not a
triumphant or a derisive gesture. Even my furious and distempered mind recognised it as being a solemn and courteous
leave-taking. Then he settled down to his oars once more, and the little skiff shot away out over the bay. The sun had
gone down now, leaving a single dull, red streak upon the water, which stretched away until it blended with the purple
haze on the horizon. Gradually the skiff grew smaller and smaller as it sped across this lurid band, until the shades
of night gathered round it and it became a mere blur upon the lonely sea. Then this vague loom died away also and
darkness settled over it — a darkness which should never more be raised.

And why did I pace the solitary shore, hot and wrathful as a wolf whose whelp has been torn from it? Was it that I
loved this Muscovite girl? No — a thousand times no. I am not one who, for the sake of a white skin or a blue eye,
would belie my own life, and change the whole tenor of my thoughts and existence. My heart was untouched. But my pride
— ah, there I had been cruelly wounded.

To think that I had been unable to afford protection to the helpless one who craved it of me, and who relied on me!
It was that which made my heart sick and sent the blood buzzing through my ears.

That night a great wind rose up from the sea, and the wild waves shrieked upon the shore as though they would tear
it back with them into the ocean. The turmoil and the uproar were congenial to my vexed spirit. All night I wandered up
and down, wet with spray and rain, watching the gleam of the white breakers and listening to the outcry of the storm.
My heart was bitter against the Russian. I joined my feeble pipe to the screaming of the gale. “If he would but come
back again!” I cried with clenched hands; “if he would but come back!”

He came back. When the grey light of morning spread over the eastern sky, and lit up the great waste of yellow,
tossing waters, with the brown clouds drifting swiftly over them, then I saw him once again. A few hundred yards off
along the sand there lay a long dark object, cast up by the fury of the waves. It was my boat, much shattered and
splintered. A little further on, a vague, shapeless something was washing to and fro in the shallow water, all mixed
with shingle and with seaweed. I saw at a glance that it was the Russian, face downwards and dead. I rushed into the
water and dragged him up on to the beach. It was only when I turned him over that I discovered that she was beneath
him, his dead arms encircling her, his mangled body still intervening between her and the fury of the storm. It seemed
that the fierce German Sea might beat the life from him, but with all its strength it was unable to tear this
one-idea’d man from the woman whom he loved. There were signs which led me to believe that during that awful night the
woman’s fickle mind had come at last to learn the worth of the true heart and strong arm which struggled for her and
guarded her so tenderly. Why else should her little head be nestling so lovingly on his broad breast, while her yellow
hair entwined itself with his flowing beard? Why too should there be that bright smile of ineffable happiness and
triumph, which death itself had not had power to banish from his dusky face? I fancy that death had been brighter to
him than life had ever been.

Madge and I buried them there on the shores of the desolate northern sea. They lie in one grave deep down beneath
the yellow sand. Strange things may happen in the world around them. Empires may rise and may fall, dynasties may
perish, great wars may come and go, but, heedless of it all, those two shall embrace each other for ever and aye, in
their lonely shrine by the side of the sounding ocean. I sometimes have thought that their spirits flit like shadowy
sea-mews over the wild waters of the bay. No cross or symbol marks their resting-place, but old Madge puts wild flowers
upon it at times, and when I pass on my daily walk and see the fresh blossoms scattered over the sand, I think of the
strange couple who came from afar, and broke for a little space the dull tenor of my sombre life.

That Little Square Box

“All aboard?” said the captain.

“All aboard, sir!” said the mate.

“Then stand by to let her go.”

It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday morning. The good ship Spartan was lying off Boston Quay with her cargo under
hatches, her passengers shipped, and everything prepared for a start. The warning whistle had been sounded twice; the
final bell had been rung. Her bowsprit was turned towards England, and the hiss of escaping steam showed that all was
ready for her run of three thousand miles. She strained at the warps that held her like a greyhound at its leash.

I have the misfortune to be a very nervous man. A sedentary literary life has helped to increase the morbid love of
solitude which, even in my boyhood, was one of my distinguishing characteristics. As I stood upon the quarter-deck of
the Transatlantic steamer, I bitterly cursed the necessity which drove me back to the land of my forefathers. The
shouts of the sailors, the rattle of the cordage, the farewells of my fellow-passengers, and the cheers of the mob,
each and all jarred upon my sensitive nature. I felt sad too. An indescribable feeling, as of some impending calamity,
seemed to haunt me. The sea was calm, and the breeze light. There was nothing to disturb the equanimity of the most
confirmed of landsmen, yet I felt as if I stood upon the verge of a great though indefinable danger. I have noticed
that such presentiments occur often in men of my peculiar temperament, and that they are not uncommonly fulfilled.
There is a theory that it arises from a species of second-sight, a subtle spiritual communication with the future. I
well remember that Herr Raumer, the eminent spiritualist, remarked on one occasion that I was the most sensitive
subject as regards supernatural phenomena that he had ever encountered in the whole of his wide experience. Be that as
it may, I certainly felt far from happy as I threaded my way among the weeping, cheering groups which dotted the white
decks of the good ship Spartan. Had I known the experience which awaited me in the course of the next twelve hours I
should even then at the last moment have sprung upon the shore, and made my escape from the accursed vessel.

“Time’s up!” said the captain, closing his chronometer with a snap, and replacing it in his pocket. “Time’s up!”
said the mate. There was a last wail from the whistle, a rush of friends and relatives upon the land. One warp was
loosened, the gangway was being pushed away, when there was a shout from the bridge, and two men appeared, running
rapidly down the quay. They were waving their hands and making frantic gestures, apparently with the intention of
stopping the ship. “Look sharp!” shouted the crowd.

“Hold hard!” cried the captain. “Ease her! stop her! Up with the gangway!” and the two men sprang aboard just as the
second warp parted, and a convulsive throb of the engine shot us clear of the shore. There was a cheer from the deck,
another from the quay, a mighty fluttering of handkerchiefs, and the great vessel ploughed its way out of the harbour,
and steamed grandly away across the placid bay.

We were fairly started upon our fortnight’s voyage. There was a general dive among the passengers in quest of berths
and luggage, while a popping of corks in the saloon proved that more than one bereaved traveller was adopting
artificial means for drowning the pangs of separation. I glanced round the deck and took a running inventory of my
compagnons de voyage. They presented the usual types met with upon these occasions. There was no striking face among
them. I speak as a connoisseur, for faces are a specialty of mine. I pounce upon a characteristic feature as a botanist
does on a flower, and bear it away with me to analyse at my leisure, and classify and label it in my little
anthropological museum. There was nothing worthy of me here. Twenty types of young America going to “Yurrup,” a few
respectable middle-aged couples as an antidote, a sprinkling of clergymen and professional men, young ladies, bagmen,
British exclusives, and all the olla podrida of an ocean-going steamer. I turned away from them and gazed back at the
receding shores of America, and, as a cloud of remembrances rose before me, my heart warmed towards the land of my
adoption. A pile of portmanteaus and luggage chanced to be lying on one side of the deck, awaiting their turn to be
taken below. With my usual love for solitude I walked behind these, and sitting on a coil of rope between them and the
vessel’s side, I indulged in a melancholy reverie.

I was aroused from this by a whisper behind me. “Here’s a quiet place,” said the voice. “Sit down, and we can talk
it over in safety.”

Glancing through a chink between two colossal chests, I saw that the passengers who had joined us at the last moment
were standing at the other side of the pile. They had evidently failed to see me as I crouched in the shadow of the
boxes. The one who had spoken was a tall and very thin man with a blue-black beard and a colourless face. His manner
was nervous and excited. His companion was a short plethoric little fellow, with a brisk and resolute air. He had a
cigar in his mouth, and a large ulster slung over his left arm. They both glanced round uneasily, as if to ascertain
whether they were alone. “This is just the place,” I heard the other say. They sat down on a bale of goods with their
backs turned towards me, and I found myself, much against my will, playing the unpleasant part of eavesdropper to their
conversation.

“Well, Muller,” said the taller of the two, “we’ve got it aboard right enough.”

“Yes,” assented the man whom he had addressed as Muller, “it’s safe aboard.”

“It was rather a near go.”

“It was that, Flannigan.”

“It wouldn’t have done to have missed the ship.”

“No, it would have put our plans out.”

“Ruined them entirely,” said the little man, and puffed furiously at his cigar for some minutes.

“I’ve got it here,” he said at last.

“Let me see it.”

“Is no one looking?”

“No, they are nearly all below.”

“We can’t be too careful where so much is at stake,” said Muller, as he uncoiled the ulster which hung over his arm,
and disclosed a dark object which he laid upon the deck. One glance at it was enough to cause me to spring to my feet
with an exclamation of horror. Luckily they were so engrossed in the matter on hand that neither of them observed me.
Had they turned their heads they would infallibly have seen my pale face glaring at them over the pile of boxes.

From the first moment of their conversation a horrible misgiving had come over me. It seemed more than confirmed as
I gazed at what lay before me. It was a little square box made of some dark wood, and ribbed with brass. I suppose it
was about the size of a cubic foot. It reminded me of a pistol-case, only it was decidedly higher. There was an
appendage to it, however, on which my eyes were riveted, and which suggested the pistol itself rather than its
receptacle. This was a trigger-like arrangement upon the lid, to which a coil of string was attached. Beside this
trigger there was a small square aperture through the wood. The tall man, Flannigan, as his companion called him,
applied his eye to this, and peered in for several minutes with an expression of intense anxiety upon his face.

“It seems right enough,” he said at last.

“I tried not to shake it,” said his companion.

“Such delicate things need delicate treatment. Put in some of the needful, Muller.”

The shorter man fumbled in his pocket for some time, and then produced a small paper packet. He opened this, and
took out of it half a handful of whitish granules, which he poured down through the hole. A curious clicking noise
followed from the inside of the box, and both the men smiled in a satisfied way.

“Nothing much wrong there,” said Flannigan.

“Right as a trivet,” answered his companion.

“Look out! here’s some one coming. Take it down to our berth. It wouldn’t do to have any one suspecting what our
game is, or, worse still, have them fumbling with it, and letting it off by mistake.”

“Well, it would come to the same, whoever let it off,” said Muller.

“They’d be rather astonished if they pulled the trigger,” said the taller, with a sinister laugh. “Ha, ha! fancy
their faces! It’s not a bad bit of workmanship, I flatter myself.”

“No,” said Muller. “I hear it is your own design, every bit of it, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the spring and the sliding shutter are my own.”

“We should take out a patent.”

And the two men laughed again with a cold harsh laugh, as they took up the little brass-bound package, and concealed
it in Muller’s voluminous overcoat.

“Come down, and we’ll stow it in our berth,” said Flannigan. “We won’t need it until to-night, and it will be safe
there.”

His companion assented, and the two went arm-inarm along the deck and disappeared down the hatchway, bearing the
mysterious little box away with them. The last words I heard were a muttered injunction from Flannigan to carry it
carefully, and avoid knocking it against the bulwarks.

How long I remained sitting on that coil of rope I shall never know. The horror of the conversation I had just
overheard was aggravated by the first sinking qualms of sea-sickness. The long roll of the Atlantic was beginning to
assert itself over both ship and passengers. I felt prostrated in mind and in body, and fell into a state of collapse,
from which I was finally aroused by the hearty voice of our worthy quartermaster.

“Do you mind moving out of that, sir?” he said. “We want to get this lumber cleared off the deck.”

His bluff manner and ruddy healthy face seemed to be a positive insult to me in my present condition. Had I been a
courageous or a muscular man I could have struck him. As it was, I treated the honest sailor to a melodramatic scowl
which seemed to cause him no small astonishment, and strode past him to the other side of the deck. Solitude was what I
wanted — solitude in which I could brood over the frightful crime which was being hatched before my very eyes. One of
the quarter-boats was hanging rather low down upon the davits. An idea struck me, and climbing on the bulwarks, I
stepped into the empty boat and lay down in the bottom of it. Stretched on my back, with nothing but the blue sky above
me, and an occasional view of the mizen as the vessel rolled, I was at least alone with my sickness and my
thoughts.

I tried to recall the words which had been spoken in the terrible dialogue I had overheard. Would they admit of any
construction but the one which stared me in the face? My reason forced me to confess that they would not. I endeavoured
to array the various facts which formed the chain of circumstantial evidence, and to find a flaw in it; but no, not a
link was missing. There was the strange way in which our passengers had come aboard, enabling them to evade any
examination of their luggage. The very name of “Flannigan” smacked of Fenianism, while “Muller” suggested nothing but
socialism and murder. Then their mysterious manner; their remark that their plans would have been ruined had they
missed the ship; their fear of being observed; last, but not least, the clenching evidence in the production of the
little square box with the trigger, and their grim joke about the face of the man who should let it off by mistake —
could these facts lead to any conclusion other than that they were the desperate emissaries of some body, political or
otherwise, who intended to sacrifice themselves, their fellow-passengers, and the ship, in one great holocaust? The
whitish granules which I had seen one of them pour into the box formed no doubt a fuse or train for exploding it. I had
myself heard a sound come from it which might have emanated from some delicate piece of machinery. But what did they
mean by their allusion to to-night? Could it be that they contemplated putting their horrible design into execution on
the very first evening of our voyage? The mere thought of it sent a cold shudder over me, and made me for a moment
superior even to the agonies of sea-sickness.

I have remarked that I am a physical coward. I am a moral one also. It is seldom that the two defects are united to
such a degree in the one character. I have known many men who were most sensitive to bodily danger, and yet were
distinguished for the independence and strength of their minds. In my own case, however, I regret to say that my quiet
and retiring habits had fostered a nervous dread of doing anything remarkable or making myself conspicuous, which
exceeded, if possible, my fear of personal peril. An ordinary mortal placed under the circumstances in which I now
found myself would have gone at once to the Captain, confessed his fears, and put the matter into his hands. To me,
however, constituted as I am, the idea was most repugnant. The thought of becoming the observed of all observers,
cross-questioned by a stranger, and confronted with two desperate conspirators in the character of a denouncer, was
hateful to me. Might it not by some remote possibility prove that I was mistaken? What would be my feelings if there
should turn out to be no grounds for my accusation? No, I would procrastinate; I would keep my eye on the two
desperadoes and dog them at every turn. Anything was better than the possibility of being wrong.

Then it struck me that even at that moment some new phase of the conspiracy might be developing itself. The nervous
excitement seemed to have driven away my incipient attack of sickness, for I was able to stand up and lower myself from
the boat without experiencing any return of it. I staggered along the deck with the intention of descending into the
cabin and finding how my acquaintances of the morning were occupying themselves. Just as I had my hand on the
companion-rail, I was astonished by receiving a hearty slap on the back, which nearly shot me down the steps with more
haste than dignity.

“Is that you, Hammond?” said a voice which I seemed to recognise.

“God bless me,” I said, as I turned round, “it can’t be Dick Merton! Why, how are you, old man?”

This was an unexpected piece of luck in the midst of my perplexities. Dick was just the man I wanted; kindly and
shrewd in his nature, and prompt in his actions, I should have no difficulty in telling him my suspicions, and could
rely upon his sound sense to point out the best course to pursue. Since I was a little lad in the second form at
Harrow, Dick had been my adviser and protector. He saw at a glance that something had gone wrong with me.

“Hullo!” he said, in his kindly way, “what’s put you about, Hammond? You look as white as a sheet. Mal de mer,
eh?”

“No, not that altogether,” said I. “Walk up and down with me, Dick; I want to speak to you. Give me your arm.”

Supporting myself on Dick’s stalwart frame, I tottered along by his side; but it was some time before I could muster
resolution to speak.

“Have a cigar,” said he, breaking the silence.

“No, thanks,” said I. “Dick, we shall be all corpses to-night.”

“That’s no reason against your having a cigar now,” said Dick, in his cool way, but looking hard at me from under
his shaggy eyebrows as he spoke. He evidently thought that my intellect was a little gone.

“No,” I continued, “it’s no laughing matter; and I speak in sober earnest, I assure you. I have discovered an
infamous conspiracy, Dick, to destroy this ship and every soul that is in her;” and I then proceeded systematically,
and in order, to lay before him the chain of evidence which I had collected. “There, Dick,” I said, as I concluded,
“what do you think of that? and, above all, what am I to do?”

To my astonishment he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“I’d be frightened,” he said, “if any fellow but you had told me as much. You always had a way, Hammond, of
discovering mares’ nests. I like to see the old traits breaking out again. Do you remember at school how you swore
there was a ghost in the long room, and how it turned out to be your own reflection in the mirror. Why, man,” he
continued, “what object would any one have in destroying this ship? We have no great political guns aboard. On the
contrary, the majority of the passengers are Americans. Besides, in this sober nineteenth century, the most wholesale
murderers stop at including themselves among their victims. Depend upon it, you have misunderstood them, and have
mistaken a photographic camera, or something equally innocent, for an infernal machine.”

“Nothing of the sort, sir,” said I, rather touchily “You will learn to your cost, I fear, that I have neither
exaggerated nor misinterpreted a word. As to the box, I have certainly never before seen one like it. It contained
delicate machinery; of that I am convinced, from the way in which the men handled it and spoke of it.”

“You’d make out every packet of perishable goods to be a torpedo,” said Dick, “if that is to be your only test.”

“The man’s name was Flannigan,” I continued.

“I don’t think that would go very far in a court of law,” said Dick; “but come, I have finished my cigar. Suppose we
go down together and split a bottle of claret. You can point out these two Orsinis to me if they are still in the
cabin.”

“All right,” I answered; “I am determined not to lose sight of them all day. Don’t look hard at them, though, for I
don’t want them to think that they are being watched.”

“Trust me,” said Dick; “I’ll look as unconscious and guileless as a lamb;” and with that we passed down the
companion and into the saloon.

A good many passengers were scattered about the great central table, some wrestling with refractory carpet bags and
rug-straps, some having their luncheon, and a few reading and otherwise amusing themselves. The objects of our quest
were not there. We passed down the room and peered into every berth, but there was no sign of them. “Heavens!” thought
I, “perhaps at this very moment they are beneath our feet, in the hold or engine-room, preparing their diabolical
contrivance!” It was better to know the worst than to remain in such suspense.

“Steward,” said Dick, “are there any other gentlemen about?”

“There’s two in the smoking-room, sir,” answered the steward.

The smoking-room was a little snuggery, luxuriously fitted up, and adjoining the pantry. We pushed the door open and
entered. A sigh of relief escaped from my bosom. The very first object on which my eye rested was the cadaverous face
of Flannigan, with its hard-set mouth and unwinking eye. His companion sat opposite to him. They were both drinking,
and a pile of cards lay upon the table. They were engaged in playing as we entered. I nudged Dick to show him that we
had found our quarry, and we sat down beside them with as unconcerned an air as possible. The two conspirators seemed
to take little notice of our presence. I watched them both narrowly. The game at which they were playing was
“Napoleon.” Both were adepts at it, and I could not help admiring the consummate nerve of men who, with such a secret
at their hearts, could devote their minds to the manipulating of a long suit or the finessing of a queen. Money changed
hands rapidly; but the run of luck seemed to be all against the taller of the two players. At last he threw down his
cards on the table with an oath, and refused to go on.

“No, I’m hanged if I do,” he said; “I haven’t had more than two of a suit for five hands.”

“Never mind,” said his comrade, as he gathered up his winnings; “a few dollars one way or the other won’t go very
far after to-night’s work.”

I was astonished at the rascal’s audacity, but took care to keep my eyes fixed abstractedly upon the ceiling, and
drank my wine in as unconscious a manner as possible. I felt that Flannigan was looking towards me with his wolfish
eyes to see if I had noticed the allusion. He whispered something to his companion which I failed to catch. It was a
caution, I suppose, for the other answered rather angrily —

“Nonsense! Why shouldn’t I say what I like? Over-caution is just what would ruin us.”

“I believe you want it not to come off,” said Flannigan.

“You believe nothing of the sort,” said the other, speaking rapidly and loudly. “You know as well as I do that when
I play for a stake I like to win it. But I won’t have my words criticised and cut short by you or any other man. I have
as much interest in our success as you have — more, I hope.”

He was quite hot about it, and puffed furiously at his cigar for some minutes. The eyes of the other ruffian
wandered alternately from Dick Merton to myself. I knew that I was in the presence of a desperate man, that a quiver of
my lip might be the signal for him to plunge a weapon into my heart, but I betrayed more self-command than I should
have given myself credit for under such trying circumstances. As to Dick, he was as immovable and apparently as
unconscious as the Egyptian Sphinx.

There was silence for some time in the smoking-room, broken only by the crisp rattle of the cards, as the man Muller
shuffled them up before replacing them in his pocket. He still seemed to be somewhat flushed and irritable. Throwing
the end of his cigar into the spittoon, he glanced defiantly at his companion and turned towards me.

“Can you tell me, sir,” he said, “when this ship will be heard of again?”

They were both looking at me; but though my face may have turned a trifle paler, my voice was as steady as ever as I
answered —

“I presume, sir, that it will be heard of first when it enters Queenstown Harbour.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the angry little man, “I knew you would say that. Don’t you kick me under the table, Flannigan, I
won’t stand it. I know what I am doing. You are wrong, sir,” he continued, turning to me, “utterly wrong.”

“Some passing ship, perhaps,” suggested Dick.

“No, nor that either.”

“The weather is fine,” I said; “why should we not be heard of at our destination.”

“I didn’t say we shouldn’t be heard of at our destination. Possibly we may not, and in any case that is not where we
shall be heard of first.”

“Where then?” asked Dick.

“That you shall never know. Suffice it that a rapid and mysterious agency will signal our whereabouts, and that
before the day is out. Ha, ha!” and he chuckled once again.

“Come on deck!” growled his comrade; “you have drunk too much of that confounded brandy-and-water. It has loosened
your tongue. Come away!” and taking him by the arm he half led him, half forced him out of the smoking-room, and we
heard them stumbling up the companion together, and on to the deck.

“Well, what do you think now?” I gasped, as I turned towards Dick. He was as imperturbable as ever.

“Think!” he said; “why, I think what his companion thinks, that we have been listening to the ravings of a
half-drunken man. The fellow stunk of brandy.”

“Nonsense, Dick I you saw how the other tried to stop his tongue.”

“Of course he did. He didn’t want his friend to make a fool of himself before strangers. Maybe the short one is a
lunatic, and the other his private keeper. It’s quite possible.”

“O Dick, Dick,” I cried, “how can you be so blind! Don’t you see that every word confirmed our previous
suspicion?”

“Humbug, man!” said Dick; “you’re working yourself into a state of nervous excitement. Why, what the devil do you
make of all that nonsense about a mysterious agent which would signal our whereabouts?”

“I’ll tell you what he meant, Dick,” I said, bending forward and grasping my friend’s arm. “He meant a sudden glare
and a flash seen far out at sea by some lonely fisherman off the American coast. That’s what he meant.”

“I didn’t think you were such a fool, Hammond,” said Dick Merton testily. “If you try to fix a literal meaning on
the twaddle that every drunken man talks, you will come to some queer conclusions. Let us follow their example, and go
on deck. You need fresh air, I think. Depend upon it, your liver is out of order. A sea-voyage will do you a world of
good.”

“If ever I see the end of this one,” I groaned, “I’ll promise never to venture on another. They are laying the
cloth, so it’s hardly worth while my going up. I’ll stay below and unpack my things.”

“I hope dinner will find you in a more pleasant state of mind,” said Dick; and he went out, leaving me to my
thoughts until the clang of the great gong summoned us to the saloon.

My appetite, I need hardly say, had not been improved by the incidents which had occurred during the day. I sat
down, however, mechanically at the table, and listened to the talk which was going on around me. There were nearly a
hundred first-class passengers, and as the wine began to circulate, their voices combined with the clash of the dishes
to form a perfect Babel. I found myself seated between a very stout and nervous old lady and a prim little clergyman;
and as neither made any advances I retired into my shell, and spent my time in observing the appearance of my
fellow-voyagers. I could see Dick in the dim distance dividing his attentions between a jointless fowl in front of him
and a self-possessed young lady at his side. Captain Dowie was doing the honours at my end, while the surgeon of the
vessel was seated at the other. I was glad to notice that Flannigan was placed almost opposite to me. As long as I had
him before my eyes I knew that, for the time at least, we were safe. He was sitting with what was meant to be a
sociable smile on his grim face. It did not escape me that he drank largely of wine — so largely that even before the
dessert appeared his voice had become decidedly husky. His friend Muller was seated a few places lower down. He ate
little, and appeared to be nervous and restless.

“Now, ladies,” said our genial Captain, “I trust that you will consider yourselves at home aboard my vessel. I have
no fears for the gentlemen. A bottle of champagne, steward. Here’s to a fresh breeze and a quick passage! I trust our
friends in America will hear of our safe arrival in eight days, or in nine at the very latest.”

I looked up. Quick as was the glance which passed between Flannigan and his confederate, I was able to intercept it.
There was an evil smile upon the former’s thin lips.

The conversation rippled on. Politics, the sea, amusements, religion, each was in turn discussed. I remained a
silent though an interested listener. It struck me that no harm could be done by introducing the subject which was ever
in my mind. It could be managed in an off-hand way, and would at least have the effect of turning the Captain’s
thoughts in that direction. I could watch, too, what effect it would have upon the faces of the conspirators.

There was a sudden lull in the conversation. The ordinary subjects of interest appeared to be exhausted. The
opportunity was a favourable one.

“May I ask, Captain,” I said, bending forward and speaking very distinctly, “what you think of Fenian
manifestoes?”

The Captain’s ruddy face became a shade darker from honest indignation.

“They are poor cowardly things,” he said, “as silly as they are wicked.”

“The impotent threats of a set of anonymous scoundrels,” said a pompous-looking old gentleman beside him.

“O Captain!” said the fat lady at my side, “you don’t really think they would blow up a ship?”

“I have no doubt they would if they could. But I am very sure they shall never blow up mine.”

“May I ask what precautions are taken against them?” asked an elderly man at the end of the table.

“All goods sent aboard the ship are strictly examined,” said Captain Dowie.

“But suppose a man brought explosives aboard with him?” I suggested.

“They are too cowardly to risk their own lives in that way.”

During this conversation Flannigan had not betrayed the slightest interest in what was going on. He raised his head
now and looked at the Captain.

“Don’t you think you are rather underrating them?” he said. “Every secret society has produced desperate men — why
shouldn’t the Fenians have them too? Many men think it a privilege to die in the service of a cause which seems right
in their eyes, though others may think it wrong.”

“Indiscriminate murder cannot be right in anybody’s eyes,” said the little clergyman.

“The bombardment of Paris was nothing else,” said Flannigan; “yet the whole civilised world agreed to look on with
folded arms, and change the ugly word ‘murder’ into the more euphonious one of ‘war.’ It seemed right enough to German
eyes; why shouldn’t dynamite seem so to the Fenian?”

“At any rate their empty vapourings have led to nothing as yet,” said the Captain.

“Excuse me,” returned Flannigan, “but is there not some room for doubt yet as to the fate of the Dotterel? I have
met men in America who asserted from their own personal knowledge that there was a coal torpedo aboard that
vessel.”

“Then they lied,” said the Captain. “It was proved conclusively at the court-martial to have arisen from an
explosion of coal-gas — but we had better change the subject, or we may cause the ladies to have a restless night;” and
the conversation once more drifted back into its original channel.

During this little discussion Flannigan had argued his point with a gentlemanly deference and a quiet power for
which I had not given him credit. I could not help admiring a man who, on the eve of a desperate enterprise, could
courteously argue upon a point which must touch him so nearly. He had, as I have already mentioned, partaken of a
considerable quantity of wine; but though there was a slight flush upon his pale cheek, his manner was as reserved as
ever. He did not join in the conversation again, but seemed to be lost in thought.

A whirl of conflicting ideas was battling in my own mind. What was I to do? Should I stand up now and denounce them
before both passengers and Captain? Should I demand a few minutes’ conversation with the latter in his own cabin, and
reveal it all? For an instant I was half resolved to do it, but then the old constitutional timidity came back with
redoubled force. After all there might be some mistake. Dick had heard the evidence and had refused to believe in it. I
determined to let things go on their course. A strange reckless feeling came over me. Why should I help men who were
blind to their own danger? Surely it was the duty of the officers to protect us, not ours to give warning to them. I
drank off a couple of glasses of wine, and staggered upon deck with the determination of keeping my secret locked in my
own bosom.

It was a glorious evening. Even in my excited state of mind I could not help leaning against the bulwarks and
enjoying the refreshing breeze. Away to the westward a solitary sail stood out as a dark speck against the great sheet
of flame left by the setting sun. I shuddered as I looked at it. It was grand but appalling. A single star was
twinkling faintly above our mainmast, but a thousand seemed to gleam in the water below with every stroke of our
propeller. The only blot in the fair scene was the great trail of smoke which stretched away behind us like a black
slash upon a crimson curtain. It was hard to believe that the great peace which hung over all Nature could be marred by
a poor miserable mortal.

“After all,” I thought, as I gazed into the blue depths beneath me, “if the worst comes to the worst, it is better
to die here than to linger in agony upon a sick-bed on land.” A man’s life seems a very paltry thing amid the great
forces of Nature. All my philosophy could not prevent my shuddering, however, when I turned my head and saw two shadowy
figures at the other side of the deck, which I had no difficulty in recognising. They seemed to be conversing
earnestly, but I had no opportunity of overhearing what was said; so I contented myself with pacing up and down, and
keeping a vigilant watch upon their movements.

It was a relief to me when Dick came on deck. Even an incredulous confidant is better than none at all.

“Well, old man,” he said, giving me a facetious dig in the ribs, “we’ve not been blown up yet.”

“No, not yet,” said I; “but that’s no proof that we are not going to be.”

“Nonsense, man!” said Dick; “I can’t conceive what has put this extraordinary idea into your head. I have been
talking to one of your supposed assassins, and he seems a pleasant fellow enough; quite a sporting character, I should
think, from the way he speaks.”

“Dick,” I said, “I am as certain that those men have an infernal machine, and that we are on the verge of eternity,
as if I saw them putting the match to the fuse.”

“Well, if you really think so,” said Dick, half awed for the moment by the earnestness of my manner, “it is your
duty to let the Captain know of your suspicions.”

“You are right,” I said; “I will. My absurd timidity has prevented my doing so sooner. I believe our lives can only
be saved by laying the whole matter before him.”

“Well, go and do it now,” said Dick; “but for goodness’ sake don’t mix me up in the matter.”

“I’ll speak to him when he comes off the bridge,” I answered; “and in the meantime I don’t mean to lose sight of
them.”

“Let me know of the result,” said my companion; and with a nod he strolled away in search, I fancy, of his partner
at the dinner-table.

Left to myself, I bethought me of my retreat of the morning, and climbing on the bulwark I mounted into the
quarter-boat, and lay down there. In it I could reconsider my course of action, and by raising my head I was able at
any time to get a view of my disagreeable neighbours.

An hour passed, and the Captain was still on the bridge. He was talking to one of the passengers, a retired naval
officer, and the two were deep in debate concerning some abstruse point in navigation. I could see the red tips of
their cigars from where I lay. It was dark now, so dark that I could hardly make out the figures of Flannigan and his
accomplice. They were still standing in the position which they had taken up after dinner. A few of the passengers were
scattered about the deck, but many had gone below. A strange stillness seemed to pervade the air. The voices of the
watch and the rattle of the wheel were the only sounds which broke the silence.

Another half-hour passed. The Captain was still upon the bridge. It seemed as if he would never come down. My nerves
were in a state of unnatural tension, so much so that the sound of two steps upon the deck made me start up in a quiver
of excitement. I peered over the edge of the boat, and saw that our suspicious passengers had crossed from the other
side, and were standing almost directly beneath me. The light of a binnacle fell full upon the ghastly face of the
ruffian Flannigan. Even in that short glance I saw that Muller had the ulster, whose use I knew so well, slung loosely
over his arm. I sank back with a groan. It seemed that my fatal procrastination had sacrificed two hundred innocent
lives.

I had read of the fiendish vengeance which awaited a spy. I knew that men with their lives in their hands would
stick at nothing. All I could do was to cower at the bottom of the boat and listen silently to their whispered talk
below.

“This place will do,” said a voice.

“Yes, the leeward side is best.”

“I wonder if the trigger will act?”

“I am sure it will.”

“We were to let it off at ten, were we not?”

“Yes, at ten sharp. We have eight minutes yet.” There was a pause. Then the voice began again —

“They’ll hear the drop of the trigger, won’t they?”

“It doesn’t matter. It will be too late for any one to prevent its going off.”

“That’s true. There will be some excitement among those we have left behind, won’t there?”

“Rather. How long do you reckon it will be before they hear of us?”

“The first news will get in at about midnight at earliest.”

“That will be my doing.”

“No, mine.”

“Ha, ha! we’ll settle that.”

There was a pause here. Then I heard Muller’s voice in a ghastly whisper, “There’s only five minutes more.”

How slowly the moments seemed to pass! I could count them by the throbbing of my heart.

“It’ll make a sensation on land,” said a voice.

“Yes, it will make a noise in the newspapers.”

I raised my head and peered over the side of the boat. There seemed no hope, no help. Death stared me in the face,
whether I did or did not give the alarm. The Captain had at last left the bridge. The deck was deserted, save for those
two dark figures crouching in the shadow of the boat.

Flannigan had a watch lying open in his hand.

“Three minutes more,” he said. “Put it down upon the deck.”

“No, put it here on the bulwarks.”

It was the little square box. I knew by the sound that they had placed it near the davit, and almost exactly under
my head.

I looked over again. Flannigan was pouring something out of a paper into his hand. It was white and granular — the
same that I had seen him use in the morning. It was meant as a fuse, no doubt, for he shovelled it into the little box,
and I heard the strange noise which had previously arrested my attention.

“A minute and a half more,” he said. “Shall you or I pull the string?”

“I will pull it,” said Muller.

He was kneeling down and holding the end in his hand. Flannigan stood behind with his arms folded, and an air of
grim resolution upon his face.

I could stand it no longer. My nervous system seemed to give way in a moment.

They both staggered backwards. I fancy they thought I was a spirit, with the moonlight streaming down upon my pale
face.

I was brave enough now. I had gone too far to retreat.

“Cain was damned,” I cried, “and he slew but one; would you have the blood of two hundred upon your souis?”

“He’s mad!” said Flannigan. “Time’s up. Let it off, Muller.” I sprang down upon the deck.

“You shan’t do it!” I said.

“By what right do you prevent us?”

“By every right, human and divine.”

“It’s no business of yours. Clear out of this.”

“Never!” said I.

“Confound the fellow! There’s too much at stake to stand on ceremony. I’ll hold him, Muller, while you pull the
trigger.”

Next moment I was struggling in the herculean grasp of the Irishman. Resistance was useless; I was a child in his
hands.

He pinned me up against the side of the vessel, and held me there.

“Now,” he said, “look sharp. He can’t prevent us.”

I felt that I was standing on the verge of eternity. Half-strangled in the arms of the taller ruffian, I saw the
other approach the fatal box. He stooped over it and seized the string. I breathed one prayer when I saw his grasp
tighten upon it. Then came a sharp snap, a strange rasping noise. The trigger had fallen, the side of the box flew out,
and let off — TWO GREY CARRIER PIGEONS!

Little more need be said. It is not a subject on which I care to dwell. The whole thing is too utterly disgusting
and absurd. Perhaps the best thing I can do is to retire gracefully from the scene, and let the sporting correspondent
of the New York Herald fill my unworthy place. Here is an extract clipped from its columns shortly after our departure
from America:—

“Pigeon-flying Extraordinary.— A novel match has been brought off last week between the birds of John H. Flannigan,
of Boston, and Jeremiah Muller, a well-known citizen of Lowell. Both men have devoted much time and attention to an
improved breed of bird, and the challenge is an old-standing one. The pigeons were backed to a large amount, and there
was considerable local interest in the result. The start was from the deck of the Transatlantic steamship Spartan, at
ten o’clock on the evening of the day of starting, the vessel being then reckoned to be about a hundred miles from the
land. The bird which reached home first was to be declared the winner. Considerable caution had, we believe, to be
observed, as some captains have a prejudice against the bringing off of sporting events aboard their vessels. In spite
of some little difficulty at the last moment, the trap was sprung almost exactly at ten o’clock.

“Muller’s bird arrived in Lowell in an extreme state of exhaustion on the following morning, while Flannigan’s has
not been heard of. The backers of the latter have the satisfaction of knowing, however, that the whole affair has been
characterised by extreme fairness. The pigeons were confined in a specially invented trap, which could only be opened
by the spring. It was thus possible to feed them through an aperture in the top, but any tampering with their wings was
quite out of the question. A few such matches would go far towards popularising pigeon-flying in America, and form an
agreeable variety to the morbid exhibitions of human endurance which have assumed such proportions during the last few
years.”

John Huxford’s Hiatus

Strange it is and wonderful to mark how upon this planet of ours the smallest and most insignificant
of events set a train of consequences in motion which act and react until their final results are portentous and
incalculable. Set a force rolling, however small; and who can say where it shall end, or what it may lead to! Trifles
develop into tragedies, and the bagatelle of one day ripens into the catastrophe of the next. An oyster throws out a
secretion to surround a grain of sand, and so a pearl comes into being; a pearl diver fishes it up, a merchant buys it
and sells it to a jeweller, who disposes of it to a customer. The customer is robbed of it by two scoundrels who
quarrel over the booty. One slays the other, and perishes himself upon the scaffold. Here is a direct chain of events
with a sick mollusc for its first link, and a gallows for its last one. Had that grain of sand not chanced to wash in
between the shells of the bivalve, two living breathing beings with all their potentialities for good and for evil
would not have been blotted out from among their fellows. Who shall undertake to judge what is really small and what is
great?

Thus when in the year 1821 Don Diego Salvador bethought him that if it paid the heretics in England to import the
bark of his cork oaks, it would pay him also to found a factory by which the corks might be cut and sent out ready
made, surely at first sight no very vital human interests would appear to be affected. Yet there were poor folk who
would suffer, and suffer acutely — women who would weep, and men who would become sallow and hungry-looking and
dangerous in places of which the Don had never heard, and all on account of that one idea which had flashed across him
as he strutted, cigarettiferous, beneath the grateful shadow of his limes. So crowded is this old globe of ours, and so
interlaced our interests, that one cannot think a new thought without some poor devil being the better or the worse for
it.

Don Diego Salvador was a capitalist, and the abstract thought soon took the concrete form of a great square
plastered building wherein a couple of hundred of his swarthy countrymen worked with deft nimble fingers at a rate of
pay which no English artisan could have accepted. Within a few months the result of this new competition was an abrupt
fall of prices in the trade, which was serious for the largest firms and disastrous for the smaller ones. A few
old-established houses held on as they were, others reduced their establishments and cut down their expenses, while one
or two put up their shutters and confessed themselves beaten. In this last unfortunate category was the ancient and
respected firm of Fairbairn Brothers of Brisport.

Several causes had led up to this disaster, though Don Diego’s debut as a corkcutter had brought matters to a head.
When a couple of generations back the original Fairbairn had founded the business, Brisport was a little fishing town
with no outlet or occupation for her superfluous population. Men were glad to have safe and continuous work upon any
terms. All this was altered now, for the town was expanding into the centre of a large district in the west, and the
demand for labour and its remuneration had proportionately increased. Again, in the old days, when carriage was ruinous
and communication slow, the vintners of Exeter and of Barnstaple were glad to buy their corks from their neighbour of
Brisport; but now the large London houses sent down their travellers, who competed with each other to gain the local
custom, until profits were cut down to the vanishing point. For a long time the firm had been in a precarious position,
but this further drop in prices settled the matter, and compelled Mr. Charles Fairbairn, the acting manager, to close
his establishment.

It was a murky, foggy Saturday afternoon in November when the hands were paid for the last time, and the old
building was to be finally abandoned. Mr. Fairbairn, an anxious-faced, sorrow-worn man, stood on a raised dais by the
cashier while he handed the little pile of hardly-earned shillings and coppers to each successive workman as the long
procession filed past his table. It was usual with the employees to clatter away the instant that they had been paid,
like so many children let out of school; but today they waited, forming little groups over the great dreary room, and
discussing in subdued voices the misfortune which had come upon their employers, and the future which awaited
themselves. When the last pile of coins had been handed across the table, and the last name checked by the cashier, the
whole throng faced silently round to the man who had been their master, and waited expectantly for any words which he
might have to say to them.

Mr. Charles Fairbairn had not expected this, and it embarrassed him. He had waited as a matter of routine duty until
the wages were paid, but he was a taciturn, slow-witted man, and he had not foreseen this sudden call upon his
oratorical powers. He stroked his thin cheek nervously with his long white fingers, and looked down with weak watery
eyes at the mosaic of upturned serious faces.

“I am sorry that we have to part, my men,” he said at last in a crackling voice. “It’s a bad day for all of us, and
for Brisport too. For three years we have been losing money over the works. We held on in the hope of a change coming,
but matters are going from bad to worse. There’s nothing for it but to give it up before the balance of our fortune is
swallowed up. I hope you may all be able to get work of some sort before very long. Good-bye, and God bless you!”

“God bless you, sir! God bless you!” cried a chorus of rough voices. “Three cheers for Mr. Charles Fairbairn!”
shouted a bright-eyed, smart young fellow, springing up upon a bench and waving his peaked cap in the air. The crowd
responded to the call, but their huzzas wanted the true ring which only a joyous heart can give. Then they began to
flock out into the sunlight, looking back as they went at the long deal tables and the cork-strewn floor — above all at
the sad-faced, solitary man, whose cheeks were flecked with colour at the rough cordiality of their farewell.

“Huxford,” said the cashier, touching on the shoulder the young fellow who had led the cheering; “the governor wants
to speak to you.”

The workman turned back and stood swinging his cap awkwardly in front of his ex-employer, while the crowd pushed on
until the doorway was clear, and the heavy fog-wreaths rolled unchecked into the deserted factory.

“Ah, John!” said Mr. Fairbairn, coming suddenly out of his reverie and taking up a letter from the table. “You have
been in my service since you were a boy, and you have shown that you merited the trust which I have placed in you. From
what I have heard I think I am right in saying that this sudden want of work will affect your plans more than it will
many of my other hands.”

“I was to be married at Shrovetide,” the man answered, tracing a pattern upon the table with his horny forefinger.
“I’ll have to find work first.”

“And work, my poor fellow, is by no means easy to find. You see you have been in this groove all your life, and are
unfit for anything else. It’s true you’ve been my foreman, but even that won’t help you, for the factories all over
England are discharging hands, and there’s not a vacancy to be had. It’s a bad outlook for you and such as you.”

“What would you advise, then, sir?” asked John Huxford.

“That’s what I was coming to. I have a letter here from Sheridan and Moore, of Montreal, asking for a good hand to
take charge of a workroom. If you think it will suit you, you can go out by the next boat. The wages are far in excess
of anything which I have been able to give you.”

“Why, sir, this is real kind of you,” the young workman said earnestly. “She — my girl — Mary, will be as grateful
to you as I am. I know what you say is right, and that if I had to look for work I should be likely to spend the little
that I have laid by towards housekeeping before I found it. But, sir, with your leave I’d like to speak to her about it
before I made up my mind. Could you leave it open for a few hours?”

“The mail goes out tomorrow,” Mr. Fairbairn answered. “If you decide to accept you can write tonight. Here is their
letter, which will give you their address.”

John Huxford took the precious paper with a grateful heart. An hour ago his future had been all black, but now this
rift of light had broken in the west, giving promise of better things. He would have liked to have said something
expressive of his feelings to his employer, but the English nature is not effusive, and he could not get beyond a few
choking awkward words which were as awkwardly received by his benefactor. With a scrape and a bow, he turned on his
heel, and plunged out into the foggy street.

So thick was the vapour that the houses over the way were only a vague loom, but the foreman hurried on with springy
steps through side streets and winding lanes, past walls where the fishermen’s nets were drying, and over cobble-stoned
alleys redolent of herring, until he reached a modest line of whitewashed cottages fronting the sea. At the door of one
of these the young man tapped, and then without waiting for a response, pressed down the latch and walked in.

An old silvery-haired woman and a young girl hardly out of her teens were sitting on either side of the fire, and
the latter sprang to her feet as he entered.

“You’ve got some good news, John,” she cried, putting her hands upon his shoulders, and looking into his eyes. “I
can tell it from your step. Mr. Fairbairn is going to carry on after all.”

“No, dear, not so good as that,” John Huxford answered, smoothing back her rich brown hair; “but I have an offer of
a place in Canada, with good money, and if you think as I do, I shall go out to it, and you can follow with the granny
whenever I have made all straight for you at the other side. What say you to that, my lass?”

“Why, surely, John, what you think is right must be for the best,” said the girl quietly, with trust and confidence
in her pale plain face and loving hazel eyes. “But poor granny, how is she to cross the seas?”

“Oh, never mind about me,” the old woman broke in cheerfully. “I’ll be no drag on you. If you want granny, granny’s
not too old to travel; and if you don’t want her, why she can look after the cottage, and have an English home ready
for you whenever you turn back to the old country.”

“Of course we shall need you, granny,” John Huxford said, with a cheery laugh. “Fancy leaving granny behind! That
would never do! Mary! But if you both come out, and if we are married all snug and proper at Montreal, we’ll look
through the whole city until we find a house something like this one, and we’ll have creepers on the outside just the
same, and when the doors are shut and we sit round the fire on the winter’s nights, I’m hanged if we’ll be able to tell
that we’re not at home. Besides, Mary, it’s the same speech out there, and the same king and the same flag; it’s not
like a foreign country.”

“No, of course not,” Mary answered with conviction. She was an orphan with no living relation save her old
grandmother, and no thought in life but to make a helpful and worthy wife to the man she loved. Where these two were
she could not fail to find happiness. If John went to Canada, then Canada became home to her, for what had Brisport to
offer when he was gone?

“I’m to write to-night then and accept?” the young man asked. “I knew you would both be of the same mind as myself,
but of course I couldn’t close with the offer until we had talked it over. I can get started in a week or two, and then
in a couple of months I’ll have all ready for you on the other side.”

“It will be a weary, weary time until we hear from you, dear John,” said Mary, clasping his hand; “but it’s God’s
will, and we must be patient. Here’s pen and ink. You can sit at the table and write the letter which is to take the
three of us across the Atlantic.” Strange how Don Diego’s thoughts were moulding human lives in the little Devon
village.

The acceptance was duly despatched, and John Huxford began immediately to prepare for his departure, for the
Montreal firm had intimated that the vacancy was a certainty, and that the chosen man might come out without delay to
take over his duties. In a very few days his scanty outfit was completed, and he started off in a coasting vessel for
Liverpool, where he was to catch the passenger ship for Quebec.

“Remember, John,” Mary whispered, as he pressed her to his heart upon the Brisport quay, “the cottage is our own,
and come what may, we have always that to fall back upon. If things should chance to turn out badly over there, we have
always a roof to cover us. There you will find me until you send word to us to come.”

“And that will be very soon, my lass,” he answered cheerfully, with a last embrace. “Good-bye, granny, good-bye.”
The ship was a mile and more from the land before he lost sight of the figures of the straight slim girl and her old
companion, who stood watching and waving to him from the end of the grey stone quay. It was with a sinking heart and a
vague feeling of impending disaster that he saw them at last as minute specks in the distance, walking townward and
disappearing amid the crowd who lined the beach.

From Liverpool the old woman and her granddaughter received a letter from John announcing that he was just starting
in the barque St. Lawrence, and six weeks afterwards a second longer epistle informed them of his safe arrival at
Quebec, and gave them his first impressions of the country. After that a long unbroken silence set in. Week after week
and month after month passed by, and never a word came from across the seas. A year went over their heads, and yet
another, but no news of the absentee. Sheridan and Moore were written to, and replied that though John Huxford’s letter
had reached them, he had never presented himself, and they had been forced to fill up the vacancy as best they could.
Still Mary and her grandmother hoped against hope, and looked out for the letter-carrier every morning with such
eagerness, that the kind-hearted man would often make a detour rather than pass the two pale anxious faces which peered
at him from the cottage window. At last, three years after the young foreman’s disappearance, old granny died, and Mary
was left alone, a broken sorrowful woman, living as best she might on a small annuity which had descended to her, and
eating her heart out as she brooded over the mystery which hung over the fate of her lover.

Among the shrewd west-country neighbours there had long, however, ceased to be any mystery in the matter. Huxford
arrived safely in Canada — so much was proved by his letter. Had he met with his end in any sudden way during the
journey between Quebec and Montreal, there must have been some official inquiry, and his luggage would have sufficed to
have established his identity. Yet the Canadian police had been communicated with, and had returned a positive answer
that no inquest had been held, or any body found, which could by any possibility be that of the young Englishman. The
only alternative appeared to be that he had taken the first opportunity to break all the old ties, and had slipped away
to the backwoods or to the States to commence life anew under an altered name. Why he should do this no one professed
to know, but that he had done it appeared only too probable from the facts. Hence many a deep growl of righteous anger
rose from the brawny smacksmen when Mary with her pale face and sorrow-sunken head passed along the quays on her way to
her daily marketing; and it is more than likely that if the missing man had turned up in Brisport he might have met
with some rough words or rougher usage, unless he could give some very good reason for his strange conduct. This
popular view of the case never, however, occurred to the simple trusting heart of the lonely girl, and as the years
rolled by her grief and her suspense were never for an instant tinged with a doubt as to the good faith of the missing
man. From youth she grew into middle age, and from that into the autumn of her life, patient, long-suffering, and
faithful, doing good as far as lay in her power, and waiting humbly until fate should restore either in this world or
the next that which it had so mysteriously deprived her of.

In the meantime neither the opinion held by the minority that John Huxford was dead, nor that of the majority, which
pronounced him to be faithless, represented the true state of the case. Still alive, and of stainless honour, he had
yet been singled out by fortune as her victim in one of those strange freaks which are of such rare occurrence, and so
beyond the general experience, that they might be put by as incredible, had we not the most trustworthy evidence of
their occasional possibility.

Landing at Quebec, with his heart full of hope and courage, John selected a dingy room in a back street, where the
terms were less exorbitant than elsewhere, and conveyed thither the two boxes which contained his worldly goods. After
taking up his quarters there he had half a mind to change again, for the landlady and the fellow-lodgers were by no
means to his taste; but the Montreal coach started within a day or two, and he consoled himself by the thought that the
discomfort would only last for that short time. Having written home to Mary to announce his safe arrival, he employed
himself in seeing as much of the town as was possible, walking about all day, and only returning to his room at
night.

It happened, however, that the house on which the unfortunate youth had pitched was one which was notorious for the
character of its inmates. He had been directed to it by a pimp, who found regular employment in hanging about the docks
and decoying new-comers to this den. The fellow’s specious manner and proffered civility had led the simple-hearted
west-countryman into the toils, and though his instinct told him that he was in unsafe company, he refrained,
unfortunately, from at once making his escape. He contented himself with staying out all day, and associating as little
as possible with the other inmates. From the few words which he did let drop, however, the landlady gathered that he
was a stranger without a single friend in the country to inquire after him should misfortune overtake him.

The house had an evil reputation for the hocussing of sailors, which was done not only for the purpose of plundering
them, but also to supply outgoing ships with crews, the men being carried on board insensible, and not coming to until
the ship was well down the St. Lawrence. This trade caused the wretches who followed it to be experts in the use of
stupefying drugs, and they determined to practise their arts upon their friendless lodger, so as to have an opportunity
of ransacking his effects, and of seeing what it might be worth their while to purloin. During the day he invariably
locked his door and carried off the key in his pocket, but if they could render him insensible for the night they could
examine his boxes at their leisure, and deny afterwards that he had ever brought with him the articles which he missed.
It happened, therefore, upon the eve of Huxford’s departure from Quebec, that he found, upon returning to his lodgings,
that his landlady and her two ill-favoured sons, who assisted her in her trade, were waiting up for him over a bowl of
punch, which they cordially invited him to share. It was a bitterly cold night, and the fragrant steam overpowered any
suspicions which the young Englishman may have entertained, so he drained off a bumper, and then, retiring to his
bedroom, threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and fell straight into a dreamless slumber, in which he still
lay when the three conspirators crept into his chamber, and, having opened his boxes, began to investigate his
effects.

It may have been that the speedy action of the drug caused its effect to be evanescent, or, perhaps, that the strong
constitution of the victim threw it off with unusual rapidity. Whatever the cause, it is certain that John Huxford
suddenly came to himself, and found the foul trio squatted round their booty, which they were dividing into the two
categories of what was of value and should be taken, and what was valueless and might therefore be left. With a bound
he sprang out of bed, and seizing the fellow nearest him by the collar, he slung him through the open doorway. His
brother rushed at him, but the young Devonshire man met him with such a facer that he dropped in a heap upon the
ground. Unfortunately, the violence of the blow caused him to overbalance himself, and, tripping over his prostrate
antagonist, he came down heavily upon his face. Before he could rise, the old hag sprang upon his back and clung to
him, shrieking to her son to bring the poker. John managed to shake himself clear of them both, but before he could
stand on his guard he was felled from behind by a crashing blow from an iron bar, which stretched him senseless upon
the floor.

“You’ve hit too hard, Joe,” said the old woman, looking down at the prostrate figure. “I heard the bone go.”

“If I hadn’t fetched him down he’d ha’ been too many for us,” said the young villain sulkily.

“Still, you might ha’ done it without killing him, clumsy,” said his mother. She had had a large experience of such
scenes, and knew the difference between a stunning blow and a fatal one.

“He’s still breathing,” the other said, examining him; “the back o’ his head’s like a bag o’ dice though. The
skull’s all splintered. He can’t last. What are we to do?”

“He’ll never come to himself again,” the other brother remarked. “Sarve him right. Look at my face! Let’s see,
mother; who’s in the house?”

“Only four drunk sailors.”

“They wouldn’t turn out for any noise. It’s all quiet in the street. Let’s carry him down a bit, Joe, and leave him
there. He can die there, and no one think the worse of us.”

“Take all the papers out of his pocket, then,” the mother suggested; “they might help the police to trace him. His
watch, too, and his money — L3 odd; better than nothing. Now carry him softly and don’t slip.”

Kicking off their shoes, the two brothers carried the dying man down stairs and along the deserted street for a
couple of hundred yards. There they laid him among the snow, where he was found by the night patrol, who carried him on
a shutter to the hospital. He was duly examined by the resident surgeon, who bound up the wounded head, but gave it as
his opinion that the man could not possibly live for more than twelve hours.

Twelve hours passed, however, and yet another twelve, but John Huxford still struggled hard for his life. When at
the end of three days he was found to be still breathing, the interest of the doctors became aroused at his
extraordinary vitality, and they bled him, as the fashion was in those days, and surrounded his shattered head with
icebags. It may have been on account of these measures, or it may have been in spite of them, but at the end of a
week’s deep trance the nurse in charge was astonished to hear a gabbling noise, and to find the stranger sitting up
upon the couch and staring about him with wistful, wondering eyes. The surgeons were summoned to behold the phenomenon,
and warmly congratulated each other upon the success of their treatment.

“You have been on the brink of the grave, my man,” said one of them, pressing the bandaged head back on to the
pillow; “you must not excite yourself. What is your name?”

No answer, save a wild stare.

“Where do you come from?”

Again no answer.

“He is mad,” one suggested. “Or a foreigner,” said another. “There were no papers on him when he came in. His linen
is marked ‘J. H.’ Let us try him in French and German.”

They tested him with as many tongues as they could muster among them, but were compelled at last to give the matter
over and to leave their silent patient, still staring up wild-eyed at the whitewashed hospital ceiling.

For many weeks John lay in the hospital, and for many weeks efforts were made to gain some clue as to his
antecedents, but in vain. He showed, as the time rolled by, not only by his demeanour, but also by the intelligence
with which he began to pick up fragments of sentences, like a clever child learning to talk, that his mind was strong
enough in the present, though it was a complete blank as to the past. The man’s memory of his whole life before the
fatal blow was entirely and absolutely erased. He neither knew his name, his language, his home, his business, nor
anything else. The doctors held learned consultations upon him, and discoursed upon the centre of memory and depressed
tables, deranged nerve-cells and cerebral congestions, but all their polysyllables began and ended at the fact that the
man’s memory was gone, and that it was beyond the power of science to restore it. During the weary months of his
convalescence he picked up reading and writing, but with the return of his strength came no return of his former life.
England, Devonshire, Brisport, Mary, Granny — the words brought no recollection to his mind. All was absolute darkness.
At last he was discharged, a friendless, tradeless, penniless man, without a past, and with very little to look to in
the future. His very name was altered, for it had been necessary to invent one. John Huxford had passed away, and John
Hardy took his place among mankind. Here was a strange outcome of a Spanish gentleman’s tobacco-inspired
meditations.

John’s case had aroused some discussion and curiosity in Quebec, so that he was not suffered to drift into utter
helplessness upon emerging from the hospital. A Scotch manufacturer named M’Kinlay found him a post as porter in his
establishment, and for a long time he worked at seven dollars a week at the loading and unloading of vans. In the
course of years it was noticed, however, that his memory, however defective as to the past, was extremely reliable and
accurate when concerned with anything which had occurred since his accident. From the factory he was promoted into the
counting-house, and the year 1835 found him a junior clerk at a salary of L120 a year. Steadily and surely John Hardy
fought his way upward from post to post, with his whole heart and mind devoted to the business. In 1840 he was third
clerk, in 1845 he was second, and in 1852 he became manager of the whole vast establishment, and second only to Mr.
M’Kinlay himself.

There were few who grudged John this rapid advancement, for it was obviously due to neither chance nor favouritism,
but entirely to his marvellous powers of application and industry. From early morning until late in the night he
laboured hard in the service of his employer, checking, overlooking, superintending, setting an example to all of
cheerful devotion to duty. As he rose from one post to another his salary increased, but it caused no alteration in his
mode of living, save that it enabled him to be more open-handed to the poor. He signalised his promotion to the
managership by a donation of L1000 to the hospital in which he had been treated a quarter of a century before. The
remainder of his earnings he allowed to accumulate in the business, drawing a small sum quarterly for his sustenance,
and still residing in the humble dwelling which he had occupied when he was a warehouse porter. In spite of his success
he was a sad, silent, morose man, solitary in his habits, and possessed always of a vague undefined yearning, a dull
feeling of dissatisfaction and of craving which never abandoned him. Often he would strive with his poor crippled brain
to pierce the curtain which divided him from the past, and to solve the enigma of his youthful existence, but though he
sat many a time by the fire until his head throbbed with his efforts, John Hardy could never recall the least glimpse
of John Huxford’s history.

On one occasion he had, in the interests of the firm, to journey to Quebec, and to visit the very cork factory which
had tempted him to leave England. Strolling through the workroom with the foreman, John automatically, and without
knowing what he was doing, picked up a square piece of the bark, and fashioned it with two or three deft cuts of his
penknife into a smooth tapering cork. His companion picked it out of his hand and examined it with the eye of an
expert. “This is not the first cork which you have cut by many a hundred, Mr. Hardy,” he remarked. “Indeed you are
wrong,” John answered, smiling; “I never cut one before in my life.” “Impossible!” cried the foreman. “Here’s another
bit of cork. Try again.” John did his best to repeat the performance, but the brains of the manager interfered with the
trained muscles of the corkcutter. The latter had not forgotten their cunning, but they needed to be left to
themselves, and not directed by a mind which knew nothing of the matter. Instead of the smooth graceful shape, he could
produce nothing but rough-hewn clumsy cylinders. “It must have been chance,” said the foreman, “but I could have sworn
that it was the work of an old hand!”

As the years passed John’s smooth English skin had warped and crinkled until he was as brown and as seamed as a
walnut. His hair, too, after many years of iron-grey, had finally become as white as the winters of his adopted
country. Yet he was a hale and upright old man, and when he at last retired from the manager-ship of the firm with
which he had been so long connected, he bore the weight of his seventy years lightly and bravely. He was in the
peculiar position himself of not knowing his own age, as it was impossible for him to do more than guess at how old he
was at the time of his accident.

The Franco-German War came round, and while the two great rivals were destroying each other, their more peaceful
neighbours were quietly ousting them out of their markets and their commerce. Many English ports benefited by this
condition of things, but none more than Brisport. It had long ceased to be a fishing village, but was now a large and
prosperous town, with a great breakwater in place of the quay on which Mary had stood, and a frontage of terraces and
grand hotels where all the grandees of the west country came when they were in need of a change. All these extensions
had made Brisport the centre of a busy trade, and her ships found their way into every harbour in the world. Hence it
was no wonder, especially in that very busy year of 1870, that several Brisport vessels were lying in the river and
alongside the wharves of Quebec.

One day John Hardy, who found time hang a little on his hands since his retirement from business, strolled along by
the water’s edge listening to the clanking of the steam winches, and watching the great barrels and cases as they were
swung ashore and piled upon the wharf. He had observed the coming in of a great ocean steamer, and having waited until
she was safely moored, he was turning away, when a few words fell upon his ear uttered by some one on board a little
weather-beaten barque close by him. It was only some commonplace order that was bawled out, but the sound fell upon the
old man’s ears with a strange mixture of disuse and familiarity. He stood by the vessel and heard the seamen at their
work, all speaking with the same broad, pleasant jingling accent. Why did it send such a thrill through his nerves to
listen to it? He sat down upon a coil of rope and pressed his hands to his temples, drinking in the long-forgotten
dialect, and trying to piece together in his mind the thousand half-formed nebulous recollections which were surging up
in it. Then he rose, and walking along to the stern he read the name of the ship, The Sunlight, Brisport. Brisport!
Again that flush and tingle through every nerve. Why was that word and the men’s speech so familiar to him? He walked
moodily home, and all night he lay tossing and sleepless, pursuing a shadowy something which was ever within his reach,
and yet which ever evaded him.

Early next morning he was up and down on the wharf listening to the talk of the west-country sailors. Every word
they spoke seemed to him to revive his memory and bring him nearer to the light. From time to time they paused in their
work, and seeing the white-haired stranger sitting so silently and attentively, they laughed at him and broke little
jests upon him. And even these jests had a familiar sound to the exile, as they very well might, seeing that they were
the same which he had heard in his youth, for no one ever makes a new joke in England. So he sat through the long day,
bathing himself in the west-country speech, and waiting for the light to break.

And it happened that when the sailors broke off for their mid-day meal, one of them, either out of curiosity or good
nature, came over to the old watcher and greeted him. So John asked him to be seated on a log by his side, and began to
put many questions to him about the country from which he came, and the town. All which the man answered glibly enough,
for there is nothing in the world that a sailor loves to talk of so much as of his native place, for it pleases him to
show that he is no mere wanderer, but that he has a home to receive him whenever he shall choose to settle down to a
quiet life. So the seaman prattled away about the Town Hall and the Martello Tower, and the Esplanade, and Pitt Street
and the High Street, until his companion suddenly shot out a long eager arm and caught him by the wrist. “Look here,
man,” he said, in a low quick whisper. “Answer me truly as you hope for mercy. Are not the streets that run out of the
High Street, Fox Street, Caroline Street, and George Street, in the order named?” “They are,” the sailor answered,
shrinking away from the wild flashing eyes. And at that moment John’s memory came back to him, and he saw clear and
distinct his life as it had been and as it should have been, with every minutest detail traced as in letters of fire.
Too stricken to cry out, too stricken to weep, he could only hurry away homewards wildly and aimlessly; hurry as fast
as his aged limbs would carry him, as if, poor soul! there were some chance yet of catching up the fifty years which
had gone by. Staggering and tremulous he hastened on until a film seemed to gather over his eyes, and throwing his arms
into the air with a great cry, “Oh, Mary, Mary! Oh, my lost, lost life!” he fell senseless upon the pavement.

The storm of emotion which had passed through him, and the mental shock which he had undergone, would have sent many
a man into a raging fever, but John was too strong-willed and too practical to allow his strength to be wasted at the
very time when he needed it most. Within a few days he realised a portion of his property, and starting for New York,
caught the first mail steamer to England. Day and night, night and day, he trod the quarter-deck, until the hardy
sailors watched the old man with astonishment, and marvelled how any human being could do so much upon so little sleep.
It was only by this unceasing exercise, by wearing down his vitality until fatigue brought lethargy, that he could
prevent himself from falling into a very frenzy of despair. He hardly dared ask himself what was the object of this
wild journey? What did he expect? Would Mary be still alive? She must be a very old woman. If he could but see her and
mingle his tears with hers he would be content. Let her only know that it had been no fault of his, and that they had
both been victims to the same cruel fate. The cottage was her own, and she had said that she would wait for him there
until she heard from him. Poor lass, she had never reckoned on such a wait as this.

At last the Irish lights were sighted and passed, Land’s End lay like a blue fog upon the water, and the great
steamer ploughed its way along the bold Cornish coast until it dropped its anchor in Plymouth Bay. John hurried to the
railway station, and within a few hours he found himself back once more in his native town, which he had quitted a poor
corkcutter, half a century before.

But was it the same town? Were it not for the name engraved all over the station and on the hotels, John might have
found a difficulty in believing it. The broad, well-paved streets, with the tram lines laid down the centre, were very
different from the narrow winding lanes which he could remember. The spot upon which the station had been built was now
the very centre of the town, but in the old days it would have been far out in the fields. In every direction, lines of
luxurious villas branched away in streets and crescents bearing names which were new to the exile. Great warehouses,
and long rows of shops with glittering fronts, showed him how enormously Brisport had increased in wealth as well as in
dimensions. It was only when he came upon the old High Street that John began to feel at home. It was much altered, but
still it was recognisable, and some few of the buildings were just as he had left them. There was the place where
Fairbairn’s cork works had been. It was now occupied by a great brand-new hotel. And there was the old grey Town Hall.
The wanderer turned down beside it, and made his way with eager steps but a sinking heart in the direction of the line
of cottages which he used to know so well.

It was not difficult for him to find where they had been. The sea at least was as of old, and from it he could tell
where the cottages had stood. But alas, where were they now! In their place an imposing crescent of high stone houses
reared their tall front to the beach. John walked wearily down past their palatial entrances, feeling heart-sore and
despairing, when suddenly a thrill shot through him, followed by a warm glow of excitement and of hope, for, standing a
little back from the line, and looking as much out of place as a bumpkin in a ballroom, was an old whitewashed cottage,
with wooden porch and walls bright with creeping plants. He rubbed his eyes and stared again, but there it stood with
its diamond-paned windows and white muslin curtains, the very same down to the smallest details, as it had been on the
day when he last saw it. Brown hair had become white, and fishing hamlets had changed into cities, but busy hands and a
faithful heart had kept granny’s cottage unchanged and ready for the wanderer.

And now, when he had reached his very haven of rest, John Huxford’s mind became more filled with apprehension than
ever, and he came over so deadly sick, that he had to sit down upon one of the beach benches which faced the cottage.
An old fisherman was perched at one end of it, smoking his black clay pipe, and he remarked upon the wan face and sad
eyes of the stranger.

“You have overtired yourself,” he said. “It doesn’t do for old chaps like you and me to forget our years.”

“I’m better now, thank you,” John answered. “Can you tell me, friend, how that one cottage came among all those fine
houses?”

“Why,” said the old fellow, thumping his crutch energetically upon the ground, “that cottage belongs to the most
obstinate woman in all England. That woman, if you’ll believe me, has been offered the price of the cottage ten times
over, and yet she won’t part with it. They have even promised to remove it stone by stone, and put it up on some more
convenient place, and pay her a good round sum into the bargain, but, God bless you! she wouldn’t so much as hear of
it.”

“And why was that?” asked John.

“Well, that’s just the funny part of it. It’s all on account of a mistake. You see her spark went away when I was a
youngster, and she’s got it into her head that he may come back some day, and that he won’t know where to go unless the
cottage is there. Why, if the fellow were alive he would be as old as you, but I’ve no doubt he’s dead long ago. She’s
well quit of him, for he must have been a scamp to abandon her as he did.”

“Oh, he abandoned her, did he?”

“Yes — went off to the States, and never so much as sent a word to bid her good-bye. It was a cruel shame, it was,
for the girl has been a-waiting and a-pining for him ever since. It’s my belief that it’s fifty years’ weeping that
blinded her.”

“She is blind!” cried John, half rising to his feet.

“Worse than that,” said the fisherman. “She’s mortal ill, and not expected to live. Why, look ye, there’s the
doctor’s carriage a-waiting at her door.”

At this evil tidings old John sprang up and hurried over to the cottage, where he met the physician returning to his
brougham.

“How is your patient, doctor?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“Very bad, very bad,” said the man of medicine pompously. “If she continues to sink she will be in great danger; but
if, on the other hand, she takes a turn, it is possible that she may recover,” with which oracular answer he drove away
in a cloud of dust.

John Huxford was still hesitating at the doorway, not knowing how to announce himself, or how far a shock might be
dangerous to the sufferer, when a gentleman in black came bustling up.

“Can you tell me, my man, if this is where the sick woman is?” he asked.

John nodded, and the clergyman passed in, leaving the door half open. The wanderer waited until he had gone into the
inner room, and then slipped into the front parlour, where he had spent so many happy hours. All was the same as ever,
down to the smallest ornaments, for Mary had been in the habit whenever anything was broken of replacing it with a
duplicate, so that there might be no change in the room. He stood irresolute, looking about him, until he heard a
woman’s voice from the inner chamber, and stealing to the door he peeped in.

The invalid was reclining upon a couch, propped up with pillows, and her face was turned full towards John as he
looked round the door. He could have cried out as his eyes rested upon it, for there were Mary’s pale, plain, sweet
homely features as smooth and as unchanged as though she were still the half child, half woman, whom he had pressed to
his heart on the Brisport quay. Her calm, eventless, unselfish life had left none of those rude traces upon her
countenance which are the outward emblems of internal conflict and an unquiet soul. A chaste melancholy had refined and
softened her expression, and her loss of sight had been compensated for by that placidity which comes upon the faces of
the blind. With her silvery hair peeping out beneath her snow-white cap, and a bright smile upon her sympathetic face,
she was the old Mary improved and developed, with something ethereal and angelic superadded.

“You will keep a tenant in the cottage,” she was saying to the clergyman, who sat with his back turned to the
observer. “Choose some poor deserving folk in the parish who will be glad of a home free. And when he comes you will
tell him that I have waited for him until I have been forced to go on, but that he will find me on the other side still
faithful and true. There’s a little money too — only a few pounds — but I should like him to have it when he comes, for
he may need it, and then you will tell the folk you put in to be kind to him, for he will be grieved, poor lad, and to
tell him that I was cheerful and happy up to the end. Don’t let him know that I ever fretted, or he may fret too.”

Now John listened quietly to all this from behind the door, and more than once he had to put his hand to his throat,
but when she had finished, and when he thought of her long, blameless, innocent life, and saw the dear face looking
straight at him, and yet unable to see him, it became too much for his manhood, and he burst out into an irrepressible
choking sob which shook his very frame. And then occurred a strange thing, for though he had spoken no word, the old
woman stretched out her arms to him, and cried, “Oh, Johnny, Johnny! Oh dear, dear Johnny, you have come back to me
again,” and before the parson could at all understand what had happened, those two faithful lovers were in each other’s
arms, weeping over each other, and patting each other’s silvery heads, with their hearts so full of joy that it almost
compensated for all that weary fifty years of waiting.

It is hard to say how long they rejoiced together. It seemed a very short time to them and a very long one to the
reverend gentleman, who was thinking at last of stealing away, when Mary recollected his presence and the courtesy
which was due to him. “My heart is full of joy, sir,” she said; “it is God’s will that I should not see my Johnny, but
I can call his image up as clear as if I had my eyes. Now stand up, John, and I will let the gentleman see how well I
remember you. He is as tall, sir, as the second shelf, as straight as an arrow, his face brown, and his eyes bright and
clear. His hair is well-nigh black, and his moustache the same — I shouldn’t wonder if he had whiskers as well by this
time. Now, sir, don’t you think I can do without my sight?” The clergyman listened to her description, and looking at
the battered, white-haired man before him, he hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry.

But it all proved to be a laughing matter in the end, for, whether it was that her illness had taken some natural
turn, or that John’s return had startled it away, it is certain that from that day Mary steadily improved until she was
as well as ever. “No special license for me,” John had said sturdily. “It looks as if we were ashamed of what we are
doing, as though we hadn’t the best right to be married of any two folk in the parish.” So the banns were put up
accordingly, and three times it was announced that John Huxford, bachelor, was going to be united to Mary Howden,
spinster, after which, no one objecting, they were duly married accordingly. “We may not have very long in this world,”
said old John, “but at least we shall start fair and square in the next.”

John’s share in the Quebec business was sold out, and gave rise to a very interesting legal question as to whether,
knowing that his name was Huxford, he could still sign that of Hardy, as was necessary for the completion of the
business. It was decided, however, that on his producing two trustworthy witnesses to his identity all would be right,
so the property was duly realised and produced a very handsome fortune. Part of this John devoted to building a pretty
villa just outside Brisport, and the heart of the proprietor of Beach Terrace leaped within him when he learned that
the cottage was at last to be abandoned, and that it would no longer break the symmetry and impair the effect of his
row of aristocratic mansions.

And there in their snug new home, sitting out on the lawn in the summer-time, and on either side of the fire in the
winter, that worthy old couple continued for many years to live as innocently and as happily as two children. Those who
knew them well say that there was never a shadow between them, and that the love which burned in their aged hearts was
as high and as holy as that of any young couple who ever went to the altar. And through all the country round, if ever
man or woman were in distress and fighting against hard times, they had only to go up to the villa to receive help, and
that sympathy which is more precious than help. So when at last John and Mary fell asleep in their ripe old age, within
a few hours of each other, they had all the poor and the needy and the friendless of the parish among their mourners,
and in talking over the troubles which these two had faced so bravely, they learned that their own miseries also were
but passing things, and that faith and truth can never miscarry, either in this existence or the next.

Cyprian Overbeck Wells — A Literary Mosaic

From my boyhood I have had an intense and overwhelming conviction that my real vocation lay in the
direction of literature. I have, however, had a most unaccountable difficulty in getting any responsible person to
share my views. It is true that private friends have sometimes, after listening to my effusions, gone the length of
remarking, “Really, Smith, that’s not half bad!” or, “You take my advice, old boy, and send that to some magazine!” but
I have never on these occasions had the moral courage to inform my adviser that the article in question had been sent
to well-nigh every publisher in London, and had come back again with a rapidity and precision which spoke well for the
efficiency of our postal arrangements.

Had my manuscripts been paper boomerangs they could not have returned with greater accuracy to their unhappy
dispatcher. Oh, the vileness and utter degradation of the moment when the stale little cylinder of closely written
pages, which seemed so fresh and full of promise a few days ago, is handed in by a remorseless postman! And what moral
depravity shines through the editor’s ridiculous plea of “want of space!” But the subject is a painful one, and a
digression from the plain statement of facts which I originally contemplated.

From the age of seventeen to that of three-and-twenty I was a literary volcano in a constant state of eruption.
Poems and tales, articles and reviews, nothing came amiss to my pen. From the great sea-serpent to the nebular
hypothesis, I was ready to write on anything or everything, and I can safely say that I seldom handled a subject
without throwing new lights upon it. Poetry and romance, however, had always the greatest attractions for me. How I
have wept over the pathos of my heroines, and laughed at the comicalities of my buffoons! Alas! I could find no one to
join me in my appreciation, and solitary admiration for one’s self, however genuine, becomes satiating after a time. My
father remonstrated with me too on the score of expense and loss of time, so that I was finally compelled to relinquish
my dreams of literary independence and to become a clerk in a wholesale mercantile firm connected with the West African
trade.

Even when condemned to the prosaic duties which fell to my lot in the office, I continued faithful to my first love.
I have introduced pieces of word-painting into the most commonplace business letters which have, I am told,
considerably astonished the recipients. My refined sarcasm has made defaulting creditors writhe and wince.
Occasionally, like the great Silas Wegg, I would drop into poetry, and so raise the whole tone of the correspondence.
Thus what could be more elegant than my rendering of the firm’s instructions to the captain of one of their vessels. It
ran in this way:—

“From England, Captain, you must steer a
Course directly to Madeira,
Land the casks of salted beef,
Then away to Teneriffe.
Pray be careful, cool, and wary
With the merchants of Canary.
When you leave them make the most
Of the trade winds to the coast.
Down it you shall sail as far
As the land of Calabar,
And from there you’ll onward go
To Bonny and Fernando Po”——

and so on for four pages. The captain, instead of treasuring up this little gem, called at the office next day, and
demanded with quite unnecessary warmth what the thing meant, and I was compelled to translate it all back into prose.
On this, as on other similar occasions, my employer took me severely to task — for he was, you see, a man entirely
devoid of all pretensions to literary taste!

All this, however, is a mere preamble, and leads up to the fact that after ten years or so of drudgery I inherited a
legacy which, though small, was sufficient to satisfy my simple wants. Finding myself independent, I rented a quiet
house removed from the uproar and bustle of London, and there I settled down with the intention of producing some great
work which should single me out from the family of the Smiths, and render my name immortal. To this end I laid in
several quires of foolscap, a box of quill pens, and a sixpenny bottle of ink, and having given my housekeeper
injunctions to deny me to all visitors, I proceeded to look round for a suitable subject.

I was looking round for some weeks. At the end of that time I found that I had by constant nibbling devoured a large
number of the quills, and had spread the ink out to such advantage, what with blots, spills, and abortive
commencements, that there appeared to be some everywhere except in the bottle. As to the story itself, however, the
facility of my youth had deserted me completely, and my mind remained a complete blank; nor could I, do what I would,
excite my sterile imagination to conjure up a single incident or character.

In this strait I determined to devote my leisure to running rapidly through the works of the leading English
novelists, from Daniel Defoe to the present day, in the hope of stimulating my latent ideas and of getting a good grasp
of the general tendency of literature. For some time past I had avoided opening any work of fiction because one of the
greatest faults of my youth had been that I invariably and unconsciously mimicked the style of the last author whom I
had happened to read. Now, however, I made up my mind to seek safety in a multitude, and by consulting ALL the English
classics to avoid?? the danger of imitating any one too closely. I had just accomplished the task of reading through
the majority of the standard novels at the time when my narrative commences.

It was, then, about twenty minutes to ten on the night of the fourth of June, eighteen hundred and eighty-six, that,
after disposing of a pint of beer and a Welsh rarebit for my supper, I seated myself in my arm-chair, cocked my feet
upon a stool, and lit my pipe, as was my custom. Both my pulse and my temperature were, as far as I know, normal at the
time. I would give the state of the barometer, but that unlucky instrument had experienced an unprecedented fall of
forty-two inches — from a nail to the ground — and was not in a reliable condition. We live in a scientific age, and I
flatter myself that I move with the times.

Whilst in that comfortable lethargic condition which accompanies both digestion and poisoning by nicotine, I
suddenly became aware of the extraordinary fact that my little drawing-room had elongated into a great salon, and that
my humble table had increased in proportion. Round this colossal mahogany were seated a great number of people who were
talking earnestly together, and the surface in front of them was strewn with books and pamphlets. I could not help
observing that these persons were dressed in a most extraordinary mixture of costumes, for those at the end nearest to
me wore peruke wigs, swords, and all the fashions of two centuries back; those about the centre had tight
knee-breeches, high cravats, and heavy bunches of seals; while among those at the far side the majority were dressed in
the most modern style, and among them I saw, to my surprise, several eminent men of letters whom I had the honour of
knowing. There were two or three women in the company. I should have risen to my feet to greet these unexpected guests,
but all power of motion appeared to have deserted me, and I could only lie still and listen to their conversation,
which I soon perceived to be all about myself.

“Egad!” exclaimed a rough, weather-beaten man, who was smoking a long churchwarden pipe at my end of the table, “my
heart softens for him. Why, gossips, we’ve been in the same straits ourselves. Gadzooks, never did mother feel more
concern for her eldest born than I when Rory Random went out to make his own way in the world.”

“Right, Tobias, right!” cried another man, seated at my very elbow.

“By my troth, I lost more flesh over poor Robin on his island, than had I the sweating sickness twice told. The tale
was well-nigh done when in swaggers my Lord of Rochester — a merry gallant, and one whose word in matters literary
might make or mar. ‘How now, Defoe,’ quoth he, ‘hast a tale on hand?’ ‘Even so, your lordship,’ I returned. ‘A right
merry one, I trust,’ quoth he. ‘Discourse unto me concerning thy heroine, a comely lass, Dan, or I mistake.’ ‘Nay,’ I
replied, ‘there is no heroine in the matter.’ ‘Split not your phrases,’ quoth he; ‘thou weighest every word like a
scald attorney. Speak to me of thy principal female character, be she heroine or no.’ ‘My lord,’ I answered, ‘there is
no female character.’ ‘Then out upon thyself and thy book too!’ he cried. ‘Thou hadst best burn it!’— and so out in
great dudgeon, whilst I fell to mourning over my poor romance, which was thus, as it were, sentenced to death before
its birth. Yet there are a thousand now who have read of Robin and his man Friday, to one who has heard of my Lord of
Rochester.”

“Very true, Defoe,” said a genial-looking man in a red waistcoat, who was sitting at the modern end of the table.
“But all this won’t help our good friend Smith in making a start at his story, which, I believe, was the reason why we
assembled.”

“The Dickens it is!” stammered a little man beside him, and everybody laughed, especially the genial man, who cried
out, “Charley Lamb, Charley Lamb, you’ll never alter. You would make a pun if you were hanged for it.”

“That would be a case of haltering,” returned the other, on which everybody laughed again.

By this time I had begun to dimly realise in my confused brain the enormous honour which had been done me. The
greatest masters of fiction in every age of English letters had apparently made a rendezvous beneath my roof, in order
to assist me in my difficulties. There were many faces at the table whom I was unable to identify; but when I looked
hard at others I often found them to be very familiar to me, whether from paintings or from mere description. Thus
between the first two speakers, who had betrayed themselves as Defoe and Smollett, there sat a dark, saturnine
corpulent old man, with harsh prominent features, who I was sure could be none other than the famous author of
Gulliver. There were several others of whom I was not so sure, sitting at the other side of the table, but I conjecture
that both Fielding and Richardson were among them, and I could swear to the lantern-jaws and cadaverous visage of
Lawrence Sterne. Higher up I could see among the crowd the high forehead of Sir Walter Scott, the masculine features of
George Eliott, and the flattened nose of Thackeray; while amongst the living I recognised James Payn, Walter Besant,
the lady known as “Ouida,” Robert Louis Stevenson, and several of lesser note. Never before, probably, had such an
assemblage of choice spirits gathered under one roof.

The Johnstones were one of the Redesdale families, second cousins of the Armstrongs, and connected by marriage to
——”

“Perhaps, Sir Walter,” interrupted Thackeray, “you would take the responsibility off our hands by yourself dictating
the commencement of a story to this young literary aspirant.”

“Na, na!” cried Sir Walter; “I’ll do my share, but there’s Chairlie over there as full o’ wut as a Radical’s full o’
treason. He’s the laddie to give a cheery opening to it.”

Dickens was shaking his head, and apparently about to refuse the honour, when a voice from among the moderns — I
could not see who it was for the crowd — said:

“Suppose we begin at the end of the table and work round, any one contributing a little as the fancy seizes
him?”

“Agreed! agreed!” cried the whole company; and every eye was turned on Defoe, who seemed very uneasy, and filled his
pipe from a great tobacco-box in front of him.

“Nay, gossips,” he said, “there are others more worthy ——” But he was interrupted by loud cries of “No! no!” from
the whole table; and Smollett shouted out, “Stand to it, Dan — stand to it! You and I and the Dean here will make three
short tacks just to fetch her out of harbour, and then she may drift where she pleases.” Thus encouraged, Defoe cleared
his throat, and began in this way, talking between the puffs of his pipe:—

“My father was a well-to-do yeoman of Cheshire, named Cyprian Overbeck, but, marrying about the year 1617, he
assumed the name of his wife’s family, which was Wells; and thus I, their eldest son, was named Cyprian Overbeck Wells.
The farm was a very fertile one, and contained some of the best grazing land in those parts, so that my father was
enabled to lay by money to the extent of a thousand crowns, which he laid out in an adventure to the Indies with such
surprising success that in less than three years it had increased fourfold. Thus encouraged, he bought a part share of
the trader, and, fitting her out once more with such commodities as were most in demand (viz., old muskets, hangers and
axes, besides glasses, needles, and the like), he placed me on board as supercargo to look after his interests, and
despatched us upon our voyage.

“We had a fair wind as far as Cape de Verde, and there, getting into the north-west trade-winds, made good progress
down the African coast. Beyond sighting a Barbary rover once, whereat our mariners were in sad distress, counting
themselves already as little better than slaves, we had good luck until we had come within a hundred leagues of the
Cape of Good Hope, when the wind veered round to the southward and blew exceeding hard, while the sea rose to such a
height that the end of the mainyard dipped into the water, and I heard the master say that though he had been at sea
for five-and-thirty years he had never seen the like of it, and that he had little expectation of riding through it. On
this I fell to wringing my hands and bewailing myself, until the mast going by the board with a crash, I thought that
the ship had struck, and swooned with terror, falling into the scuppers and lying like one dead, which was the saving
of me, as will appear in the sequel. For the mariners, giving up all hope of saving the ship, and being in momentary
expectation that she would founder, pushed off in the long-boat, whereby I fear that they met the fate which they hoped
to avoid, since I have never from that day heard anything of them. For my own part, on recovering from the swoon into
which I had fallen, I found that, by the mercy of Providence, the sea had gone down, and that I was alone in the
vessel. At which last discovery I was so terror-struck that I could but stand wringing my hands and bewailing my sad
fate, until at last taking heart, I fell to comparing my lot with that of my unhappy camerados, on which I became more
cheerful, and descending to the cabin, made a meal off such dainties as were in the captain’s locker.”

Having got so far, Defoe remarked that he thought he had given them a fair start, and handed over the story to Dean
Swift, who, after premising that he feared he would find himself as much at sea as Master Cyprian Overbeck Wells,
continued in this way:—

“For two days I drifted about in great distress, fearing that there should be a return of the gale, and keeping an
eager look-out for my late companions. Upon the third day, towards evening, I observed to my extreme surprise that the
ship was under the influence of a very powerful current, which ran to the north-east with such violence that she was
carried, now bows on, now stern on, and occasionally drifting sideways like a crab, at a rate which I cannot compute at
less than twelve or fifteen knots an hour. For several weeks I was borne away in this manner, until one morning, to my
inexpressible joy, I sighted an island upon the starboard quarter. The current would, however, have carried me past it
had I not made shift, though single-handed, to set the flying-jib so as to turn her bows, and then clapping on the
sprit-sail, studding-sail, and fore-sail, I clewed up the halliards upon the port side, and put the wheel down hard
a-starboard, the wind being at the time north-east-half-east.”

At the description of this nautical manoeuvre I observed that Smollett grinned, and a gentleman who was sitting
higher up the table in the uniform of the Royal Navy, and who I guessed to be Captain Marryat, became very uneasy and
fidgeted in his seat.

“By this means I got clear of the current and was able to steer within a quarter of a mile of the beach, which
indeed I might have approached still nearer by making another tack, but being an excellent swimmer, I deemed it best to
leave the vessel, which was almost waterlogged, and to make the best of my way to the shore.

“I had had my doubts hitherto as to whether this new-found country was inhabited or no, but as I approached nearer
to it, being on the summit of a great wave, I perceived a number of figures on the beach, engaged apparently in
watching me and my vessel. My joy, however, was considerably lessened when on reaching the land I found that the
figures consisted of a vast concourse of animals of various sorts who were standing about in groups, and who hurried
down to the water’s edge to meet me. I had scarce put my foot upon the sand before I was surrounded by an eager crowd
of deer, dogs, wild boars, buffaloes, and other creatures, none of whom showed the least fear either of me or of each
other, but, on the contrary, were animated by a common feeling of curiosity, as well as, it would appear, by some
degree of disgust.”

“A second edition,” whispered Lawrence Sterne to his neighbour; “Gulliver served up cold.”

“Did you speak, sir?” asked the Dean very sternly, having evidently overheard the remark.

“My words were not addressed to you, sir,” answered Sterne, looking rather frightened.

“They were none the less insolent,” roared the Dean. “Your reverence would fain make a Sentimental Journey of the
narrative, I doubt not, and find pathos in a dead donkey — though faith, no man can blame thee for mourning over thy
own kith and kin.”

“Better that than to wallow in all the filth of Yahoo-land,” returned Sterne warmly, and a quarrel would certainly
have ensued but for the interposition of the remainder of the company. As it was, the Dean refused indignantly to have
any further hand in the story, and Sterne also stood out of it, remarking with a sneer that he was loth to fit a good
blade on to a poor handle. Under these circumstances some further unpleasantness might have occurred had not Smollett
rapidly taken up the narrative, continuing it in the third person instead of the first:—

“Our hero, being considerably alarmed at this strange reception, lost little time in plunging into the sea again and
regaining his vessel, being convinced that the worst which might befall him from the elements would be as nothing
compared to the dangers of this mysterious island. It was as well that he took this course, for before nightfall his
ship was overhauled and he himself picked up by a British man-of-war, the Lightning, then returning from the West
Indies, where it had formed part of the fleet under the command of Admiral Benbow. Young Wells, being a likely lad
enough, well-spoken and high-spirited, was at once entered on the books as officer’s servant, in which capacity he both
gained great popularity on account of the freedom of his manners, and found an opportunity for indulging in those
practical pleasantries for which he had all his life been famous.

“Among the quartermasters of the Lightning there was one named Jedediah Anchorstock, whose appearance was so
remarkable that it quickly attracted the attention of our hero. He was a man of about fifty, dark with exposure to the
weather, and so tall that as he came along the ‘tween decks he had to bend himself nearly double. The most striking
peculiarity of this individual was, however, that in his boyhood some evil-minded person had tattooed eyes all over his
countenance with such marvellous skill that it was difficult at a short distance to pick out his real ones among so
many counterfeits. On this strange personage Master Cyprian determined to exercise his talents for mischief, the more
so as he learned that he was extremely superstitious, and also that he had left behind him in Portsmouth a
strong-minded spouse of whom he stood in mortal terror. With this object he secured one of the sheep which were kept on
board for the officers’ table, and pouring a can of rumbo down its throat, reduced it to a state of utter intoxication.
He then conveyed it to Anchorstock’s berth, and with the assistance of some other imps, as mischievous as himself,
dressed it up in a high nightcap and gown, and covered it over with the bedclothes.

“When the quartermaster came down from his watch our hero met him at the door of his berth with an agitated face.
‘Mr. Anchorstock,’ said he, ‘can it be that your wife is on board?’ ‘Wife!’ roared the astonished sailor. ‘Ye
white-faced swab, what d’ye mean?’ ‘If she’s not here in the ship it must be her ghost,’ said Cyprian, shaking his head
gloomily. ‘In the ship! How in thunder could she get into the ship? Why, master, I believe as how you’re weak in the
upper works, d’ye see? to as much as think o’ such a thing. My Poll is moored head and starn, behind the point at
Portsmouth, more’n two thousand mile away.’ ‘Upon my word,’ said our hero, very earnestly, ‘I saw a female look out of
your cabin not five minutes ago.’ ‘Ay, ay, Mr. Anchorstock,’ joined in several of the conspirators. ‘We all saw her — a
spanking-looking craft with a dead-light mounted on one side.’ ‘Sure enough,’ said Anchorstock, staggered by this
accumulation of evidence, ‘my Polly’s starboard eye was doused for ever by long Sue Williams of the Hard. But if so be
as she be there I must see her, be she ghost or quick;’ with which the honest sailor, in much perturbation and
trembling in every limb, began to shuffle forward into the cabin, holding the light well in front of him. It chanced,
however, that the unhappy sheep, which was quietly engaged in sleeping off the effects of its unusual potations, was
awakened by the noise of this approach, and finding herself in such an unusual position, sprang out of the bed and
rushed furiously for the door, bleating wildly, and rolling about like a brig in a tornado, partly from intoxication
and partly from the night-dress which impeded her movements. As Anchorstock saw this extraordinary apparition bearing
down upon him, he uttered a yell and fell flat upon his face, convinced that he had to do with a supernatural visitor,
the more so as the confederates heightened the effect by a chorus of most ghastly groans and cries.

“The joke had nearly gone beyond what was originally intended, for the quartermaster lay as one dead, and it was
only with the greatest difficulty that he could be brought to his senses. To the end of the voyage he stoutly asserted
that he had seen the distant Mrs. Anchorstock, remarking with many oaths that though he was too woundily scared to take
much note of the features, there was no mistaking the strong smell of rum which was characteristic of his better
half.

“It chanced shortly after this to be the king’s birthday, an event which was signalised aboard the Lightening by the
death of the commander under singular circumstances. This officer, who was a real fair-weather Jack, hardly knowing the
ship’s keel from her ensign, had obtained his position through parliamentary interest, and used it with such tyranny
and cruelty that he was universally execrated. So unpopular was he that when a plot was entered into by the whole crew
to punish his misdeeds with death, he had not a single friend among six hundred souls to warn him of his danger. It was
the custom on board the king’s ships that upon his birthday the entire ship’s company should be drawn up upon deck, and
that at a signal they should discharge their muskets into the air in honour of his Majesty. On this occasion word had
been secretly passed round for every man to slip a slug into his firelock, instead of the blank cartridge provided. On
the boatswain blowing his whistle the men mustered upon deck and formed line, whilst the captain, standing well in
front of them, delivered a few words to them. ‘When I give the word,’ he concluded, ‘you shall discharge your pieces,
and by thunder, if any man is a second before or a second after his fellows I shall trice him up to the weather
rigging!’ With these words he roared ‘Fire!’ on which every man levelled his musket straight at his head and pulled the
trigger. So accurate was the aim and so short the distance, that more than five hundred bullets struck him
simultaneously, blowing away his head and a large portion of his body. There were so many concerned in this matter, and
it was so hopeless to trace it to any individual, that the officers were unable to punish any one for the affair — the
more readily as the captain’s haughty ways and heartless conduct had made him quite as hateful to them as to the men
whom they commanded.

“By his pleasantries and the natural charm of his manners our hero so far won the good wishes of the ship’s company
that they parted with infinite regret upon their arrival in England. Filial duty, however, urged him to return home and
report himself to his father, with which object he posted from Portsmouth to London, intending to proceed thence to
Shropshire. As it chanced, however, one of the horses sprained his off foreleg while passing through Chichester, and as
no change could be obtained, Cyprian found himself compelled to put up at the Crown and Bull for the night.

“Ods bodikins!” continued Smollett, laughing, “I never could pass a comfortable hostel without stopping, and so,
with your permission, I’ll e’en stop here, and whoever wills may lead friend Cyprian to his further adventures. Do you,
Sir Walter, give us a touch of the Wizard of the North.”

With these words Smollett produced a pipe, and filling it at Defoe’s tobacco-pot, waited patiently for the
continuation of the story.

“If I must, I must,” remarked the illustrious Scotchman, taking a pinch of snuff; “but I must beg leave to put Mr.
Wells back a few hundred years, for of all things I love the true mediaeval smack. To proceed then:—

“Our hero, being anxious to continue his journey, and learning that it would be some time before any conveyance
would be ready, determined to push on alone mounted on his gallant grey steed. Travelling was particularly dangerous at
that time, for besides the usual perils which beset wayfarers, the southern parts of England were in a lawless and
disturbed state which bordered on insurrection. The young man, however, having loosened his sword in his sheath, so as
to be ready for every eventuality, galloped cheerily upon his way, guiding himself to the best of his ability by the
light of the rising moon.

“He had not gone far before he realised that the cautions which had been impressed upon him by the landlord, and
which he had been inclined to look upon as self-interested advice, were only too well justified. At a spot where the
road was particularly rough, and ran across some marsh land, he perceived a short distance from him a dark shadow,
which his practised eye detected at once as a body of crouching men. Reining up his horse within a few yards of the
ambuscade, he wrapped his cloak round his bridle-arm and summoned the party to stand forth.

“‘What ho, my masters!’ he cried. ‘Are beds so scarce, then, that ye must hamper the high road of the king with your
bodies? Now, by St. Ursula of Alpuxerra, there be those who might think that birds who fly o’ nights were after higher
game than the moorhen or the woodcock!’

“‘Blades and targets, comrades!’ exclaimed a tall powerful man, springing into the centre of the road with several
companions, and standing in front of the frightened horse. ‘Who is this swashbuckler who summons his Majesty’s lieges
from their repose? A very soldado, o’ truth. Hark ye, sir, or my lord, or thy grace, or whatsoever title your honour’s
honour may be pleased to approve, thou must curb thy tongue play, or by the seven witches of Gambleside thou may find
thyself in but a sorry plight.’

“‘I prythee, then, that thou wilt expound to me who and what ye are,’ quoth our hero, ‘and whether your purpose be
such as an honest man may approve of. As to your threats, they turn from my mind as your caitiffly weapons would shiver
upon my hauberk from Milan.’

“‘Nay, Allen,’ interrupted one of the party, addressing him who seemed to be their leader; ‘this is a lad of mettle,
and such a one as our honest Jack longs for. But we lure not hawks with empty hands. Look ye, sir, there is game afoot
which it may need such bold hunters as thyself to follow. Come with us and take a firkin of canary, and we will find
better work for that glaive of thine than getting its owner into broil and bloodshed; for, by my troth! Milan or no
Milan, if my curtel axe do but ring against that morion of thine it will be an ill day for thy father’s son.’

“For a moment our hero hesitated as to whether it would best become his knightly traditions to hurl himself against
his enemies, or whether it might not be better to obey their requests. Prudence, mingled with a large share of
curiosity, eventually carried the day, and dismounting from his horse, he intimated that he was ready to follow his
captors.

“‘Spoken like a man!’ cried he whom they addressed as Allen. ‘Jack Cade will be right glad of such a recruit. Blood
and carrion! but thou hast the thews of a young ox; and I swear, by the haft of my sword, that it might have gone ill
with some of us hadst thou not listened to reason!’

“‘Nay, not so, good Allen — not so,’ squeaked a very small man, who had remained in the background while there was
any prospect of a fray, but who now came pushing to the front. ‘Hadst thou been alone it might indeed have been so,
perchance, but an expert swordsman can disarm at pleasure such a one as this young knight. Well I remember in the
Palatinate how I clove to the chine even such another — the Baron von Slogstaff. He struck at me, look ye, so; but I,
with buckler and blade, did, as one might say, deflect it; and then, countering in carte, I returned in tierce, and so
— St. Agnes save us! who comes here?’

“The apparition which frightened the loquacious little man was sufficiently strange to cause a qualm even in the
bosom of the knight. Through the darkness there loomed a figure which appeared to be of gigantic size, and a hoarse
voice, issuing apparently some distance above the heads of the party, broke roughly on the silence of the night.

“‘Now out upon thee, Thomas Allen, and foul be thy fate if thou hast abandoned thy post without good and sufficient
cause. By St. Anselm of the Holy Grove, thou hadst best have never been born than rouse my spleen this night. Wherefore
is it that you and your men are trailing over the moor like a flock of geese when Michaelmas is near?’

“‘Good captain,’ said Allen, doffing his bonnet, an example followed by others of the band, ‘we have captured a
goodly youth who was pricking it along the London road. Methought that some word of thanks were meet reward for such
service, rather than taunt or threat.’

“‘Nay, take it not to heart, bold Allen,’ exclaimed their leader, who was none other than the great Jack Cade
himself. ‘Thou knowest of old that my temper is somewhat choleric, and my tongue not greased with that unguent which
oils the mouths of the lip-serving lords of the land. And you,’ he continued, turning suddenly upon our hero, ‘are you
ready to join the great cause which will make England what it was when the learned Alfred reigned in the land? Zounds,
man, speak out, and pick not your phrases.’

“‘I am ready to do aught which may become a knight and a gentleman,’ said the soldier stoutly.

“‘Taxes shall be swept away!’ cried Cade excitedly —‘the impost and the anpost — the tithe and the hundred-tax. The
poor man’s salt-box and flour-bin shall be as free as the nobleman’s cellar. Ha! what sayest thou?’

“‘It is but just,’ said our hero.

“‘Ay, but they give us such justice as the falcon gives the leveret!’ roared the orator. ‘Down with them, I say —
down with every man of them! Noble and judge, priest and king, down with them all!’

“‘Nay,’ said Sir Overbeck Wells, drawing himself up to his full height, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his
sword, ‘there I cannot follow thee, but must rather defy thee as traitor and faineant, seeing that thou art no true
man, but one who would usurp the rights of our master the king, whom may the Virgin protect!’

“At these bold words, and the defiance which they conveyed, the rebels seemed for a moment utterly bewildered; but,
encouraged by the hoarse shout of their leader, they brandished their weapons and prepared to fall upon the knight, who
placed himself in a posture for defence and awaited their attack.

“There now!” cried Sir Walter, rubbing his hands and chuckling, “I’ve put the chiel in a pretty warm corner, and
we’ll see which of you moderns can take him oot o’t. Ne’er a word more will ye get frae me to help him one way or the
other.”

“You try your hand, James,” cried several voices, and the author in question had got so far as to make an allusion
to a solitary horseman who was approaching, when he was interrupted by a tall gentleman a little farther down with a
slight stutter and a very nervous manner.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I fancy that I may be able to do something here. Some of my humble productions have been
said to excel Sir Walter at his best, and I was undoubtedly stronger all round. I could picture modern society as well
as ancient; and as to my plays, why Shakespeare never came near ‘The Lady of Lyons’ for popularity. There is this
little thing ——” (Here he rummaged among a great pile of papers in front of him). “Ah! that’s a report of mine, when I
was in India! Here it is. No, this is one of my speeches in the House, and this is my criticism on Tennyson. Didn’t I
warm him up? I can’t find what I wanted, but of course you have read them all —‘Rienzi,’ and ‘Harold,’ and ‘The Last of
the Barons.’ Every schoolboy knows them by heart, as poor Macaulay would have said. Allow me to give you a sample:—

“In spite of the gallant knight’s valiant resistance the combat was too unequal to be sustained. His sword was
broken by a slash from a brown bill, and he was borne to the ground. He expected immediate death, but such did not seem
to be the intention of the ruffians who had captured him. He was placed upon the back of his own charger and borne,
bound hand and foot, over the trackless moor, in the fastnesses of which the rebels secreted themselves.

“In the depths of these wilds there stood a stone building which had once been a farm-house, but having been for
some reason abandoned had fallen into ruin, and had now become the headquarters of Cade and his men. A large cowhouse
near the farm had been utilised as sleeping quarters, and some rough attempts had been made to shield the principal
room of the main building from the weather by stopping up the gaping apertures in the walls. In this apartment was
spread out a rough meal for the returning rebels, and our hero was thrown, still bound, into an empty outhouse, there
to await his fate.”

Sir Walter had been listening with the greatest impatience to Bulwer Lytton’s narrative, but when it had reached
this point he broke in impatiently.

“We want a touch of your own style, man,” he said. “The animal-magnetico-electro-hysterical-biological-mysterious
sort of story is all your own, but at present you are just a poor copy of myself, and nothing more.”

There was a murmur of assent from the company, and Defoe remarked, “Truly, Master Lytton, there is a plaguey
resemblance in the style, which may indeed be but a chance, and yet methinks it is sufficiently marked to warrant such
words as our friend hath used.”

“Perhaps you will think that this is an imitation also,” said Lytton bitterly, and leaning back in his chair with a
morose countenance, he continued the narrative in this way:—

“Our unfortunate hero had hardly stretched himself upon the straw with which his dungeon was littered, when a secret
door opened in the wall and a venerable old man swept majestically into the apartment. The prisoner gazed upon him with
astonishment not unmixed with awe, for on his broad brow was printed the seal of much knowledge — such knowledge as it
is not granted to the son of man to know. He was clad in a long white robe, crossed and chequered with mystic devices
in the Arabic character, while a high scarlet tiara marked with the square and circle enhanced his venerable
appearance. ‘My son,’ he said, turning his piercing and yet dreamy gaze upon Sir Overbeck, ‘all things lead to nothing,
and nothing is the foundation of all things. Cosmos is impenetrable. Why then should we exist?’

“Astounded at this weighty query, and at the philosophic demeanour of his visitor, our hero made shift to bid him
welcome and to demand his name and quality. As the old man answered him his voice rose and fell in musical cadences,
like the sighing of the east wind, while an ethereal and aromatic vapour pervaded the apartment.

“‘I am the eternal non-ego,’ he answered. ‘I am the concentrated negative — the everlasting essence of nothing. You
see in me that which existed before the beginning of matter many years before the commencement of time. I am the
algebraic x which represents the infinite divisibility of a finite particle.’

“Sir Overbeck felt a shudder as though an ice-cold hand had been placed upon his brow. ‘What is your message?’ he
whispered, falling prostrate before his mysterious visitor.

“‘To tell you that the eternities beget chaos, and that the immensities are at the mercy of the divine ananke.
Infinitude crouches before a personality. The mercurial essence is the prime mover in spirituality, and the thinker is
powerless before the pulsating inanity. The cosmical procession is terminated only by the unknowable and
unpronounceable’——

“May I ask, Mr. Smollett, what you find to laugh at?”

“Gad zooks, master,” cried Smollett, who had been sniggering for some time back. “It seems to me that there is
little danger of any one venturing to dispute that style with you.”

“It’s all your own,” murmured Sir Walter.

“And very pretty, too,” quoth Lawrence Sterne, with a malignant grin. “Pray sir, what language do you call it?”

Lytton was so enraged at these remarks, and at the favour with which they appeared to be received, that he
endeavoured to stutter out some reply, and then, losing control of himself completely, picked up all his loose papers
and strode out of the room, dropping pamphlets and speeches at every step. This incident amused the company so much
that they laughed for several minutes without cessation. Gradually the sound of their laughter sounded more and more
harshly in my ears, the lights on the table grew dim and the company more misty, until they and their symposium
vanished away altogether. I was sitting before the embers of what had been a roaring fire, but was now little more than
a heap of grey ashes, and the merry laughter of the august company had changed to the recriminations of my wife, who
was shaking me violently by the shoulder and exhorting me to choose some more seasonable spot for my slumbers. So ended
the wondrous adventures of Master Cyprian Overbeck Wells, but I still live in the hopes that in some future dream the
great masters may themselves finish that which they have begun.

John Barrington Cowles

It might seem rash of me to say that I ascribe the death of my poor friend, John Barrington Cowles,
to any preternatural agency. I am aware that in the present state of public feeling a chain of evidence would require
to be strong indeed before the possibility of such a conclusion could be admitted.

I shall therefore merely state the circumstances which led up to this sad event as concisely and as plainly as I
can, and leave every reader to draw his own deductions. Perhaps there may be some one who can throw light upon what is
dark to me.

I first met Barrington Cowles when I went up to Edinburgh University to take out medical classes there. My landlady
in Northumberland Street had a large house, and, being a widow without children, she gained a livelihood by providing
accommodation for several students.

Barrington Cowles happened to have taken a bedroom upon the same floor as mine, and when we came to know each other
better we shared a small sitting-room, in which we took our meals. In this manner we originated a friendship which was
unmarred by the slightest disagreement up to the day of his death.

Cowles’ father was the colonel of a Sikh regiment and had remained in India for many years. He allowed his son a
handsome income, but seldom gave any other sign of parental affection — writing irregularly and briefly.

My friend, who had himself been born in India, and whose whole disposition was an ardent tropical one, was much hurt
by this neglect. His mother was dead, and he had no other relation in the world to supply the blank.

Thus he came in time to concentrate all his affection upon me, and to confide in me in a manner which is rare among
men. Even when a stronger and deeper passion came upon him, it never infringed upon the old tenderness between us.

Cowles was a tall, slim young fellow, with an olive, Velasquez-like face, and dark, tender eyes. I have seldom seen
a man who was more likely to excite a woman’s interest, or to captivate her imagination. His expression was, as a rule,
dreamy, and even languid; but if in conversation a subject arose which interested him he would be all animation in a
moment. On such occasions his colour would heighten, his eyes gleam, and he could speak with an eloquence which would
carry his audience with him.

In spite of these natural advantages he led a solitary life, avoiding female society, and reading with great
diligence. He was one of the foremost men of his year, taking the senior medal for anatomy, and the Neil Arnott prize
for physics.

How well I can recollect the first time we met her! Often and often I have recalled the circumstances, and tried to
remember what the exact impression was which she produced on my mind at the time.

After we came to know her my judgment was warped, so that I am curious to recollect what my unbiassed{sic} instincts
were. It is hard, however, to eliminate the feelings which reason or prejudice afterwards raised in me.

It was at the opening of the Royal Scottish Academy in the spring of 1879. My poor friend was passionately attached
to art in every form, and a pleasing chord in music or a delicate effect upon canvas would give exquisite pleasure to
his highly-strung nature. We had gone together to see the pictures, and were standing in the grand central salon, when
I noticed an extremely beautiful woman standing at the other side of the room. In my whole life I have never seen such
a classically perfect countenance. It was the real Greek type — the forehead broad, very low, and as white as marble,
with a cloudlet of delicate locks wreathing round it, the nose straight and clean cut, the lips inclined to thinness,
the chin and lower jaw beautifully rounded off, and yet sufficiently developed to promise unusual strength of
character.

But those eyes — those wonderful eyes! If I could but give some faint idea of their varying moods, their steely
hardness, their feminine softness, their power of command, their penetrating intensity suddenly melting away into an
expression of womanly weakness — but I am speaking now of future impressions!

There was a tall, yellow-haired young man with this lady, whom I at once recognised as a law student with whom I had
a slight acquaintance.

Archibald Reeves — for that was his name — was a dashing, handsome young fellow, and had at one time been a
ringleader in every university escapade; but of late I had seen little of him, and the report was that he was engaged
to be married. His companion was, then, I presumed, his fiancee. I seated myself upon the velvet settee in the centre
of the room, and furtively watched the couple from behind my catalogue.

The more I looked at her the more her beauty grew upon me. She was somewhat short in stature, it is true; but her
figure was perfection, and she bore herself in such a fashion that it was only by actual comparison that one would have
known her to be under the medium height.

As I kept my eyes upon them, Reeves was called away for some reason, and the young lady was left alone. Turning her
back to the pictures, she passed the time until the return of her escort in taking a deliberate survey of the company,
without paying the least heed to the fact that a dozen pair of eyes, attracted by her elegance and beauty, were bent
curiously upon her. With one of her hands holding the red silk cord which railed off the pictures, she stood languidly
moving her eyes from face to face with as little self-consciousness as if she were looking at the canvas creatures
behind her. Suddenly, as I watched her, I saw her gaze become fixed, and, as it were, intense. I followed the direction
of her looks, wondering what could have attracted her so strongly.

John Barrington Cowles was standing before a picture — one, I think, by Noel Paton — I know that the subject was a
noble and ethereal one. His profile was turned towards us, and never have I seen him to such advantage. I have said
that he was a strikingly handsome man, but at that moment he looked absolutely magnificent. It was evident that he had
momentarily forgotten his surroundings, and that his whole soul was in sympathy with the picture before him. His eyes
sparkled, and a dusky pink shone through his clear olive cheeks. She continued to watch him fixedly, with a look of
interest upon her face, until he came out of his reverie with a start, and turned abruptly round, so that his gaze met
hers. She glanced away at once, but his eyes remained fixed upon her for some moments. The picture was forgotten
already, and his soul had come down to earth once more.

We caught sight of her once or twice before we left, and each time I noticed my friend look after her. He made no
remark, however, until we got out into the open air, and were walking arm-inarm along Princes Street.

“Did you notice that beautiful woman, in the dark dress, with the white fur?” he asked.

“Yes, I saw her,” I answered.

“Do you know her?” he asked eagerly. “Have you any idea who she is?”

“I don’t know her personally,” I replied. “But I have no doubt I could find out all about her, for I believe she is
engaged to young Archie Reeves, and he and I have a lot of mutual friends.”

“Engaged!” ejaculated Cowles.

“Why, my dear boy,” I said, laughing, “you don’t mean to say you are so susceptible that the fact that a girl to
whom you never spoke in your life is engaged is enough to upset you?”

“Well, not exactly to upset me,” he answered, forcing a laugh. “But I don’t mind telling you, Armitage, that I never
was so taken by any one in my life. It wasn’t the mere beauty of the face — though that was perfect enough — but it was
the character and the intellect upon it. I hope, if she is engaged, that it is to some man who will be worthy of
her.”

“Why,” I remarked, “you speak quite feelingly. It is a clear case of love at first sight, Jack. However, to put your
perturbed spirit at rest, I’ll make a point of finding out all about her whenever I meet any fellow who is likely to
know.”

Barrington Cowles thanked me, and the conversation drifted off into other channels. For several days neither of us
made any allusion to the subject, though my companion was perhaps a little more dreamy and distraught than usual. The
incident had almost vanished from my remembrance, when one day young Brodie, who is a second cousin of mine, came up to
me on the university steps with the face of a bearer of tidings.

“I say,” he began, “you know Reeves, don’t you?”

“Yes. What of him?”

“His engagement is off.”

“Off!” I cried. “Why, I only learned the other day that it was on.”

“Oh, yes — it’s all off. His brother told me so. Deucedly mean of Reeves, you know, if he has backed out of it, for
she was an uncommonly nice girl.”

“I’ve seen her,” I said; “but I don’t know her name.”

“She is a Miss Northcott, and lives with an old aunt of hers in Abercrombie Place. Nobody knows anything about her
people, or where she comes from. Anyhow, she is about the most unlucky girl in the world, poor soul!”

“Why unlucky?”

“Well, you know, this was her second engagement,” said young Brodie, who had a marvellous knack of knowing
everything about everybody. “She was engaged to Prescott — William Prescott, who died. That was a very sad affair. The
wedding day was fixed, and the whole thing looked as straight as a die when the smash came.”

“What smash?” I asked, with some dim recollection of the circumstances.

“Why, Prescott’s death. He came to Abercrombie Place one night, and stayed very late. No one knows exactly when he
left, but about one in the morning a fellow who knew him met him walking rapidly in the direction of the Queen’s Park.
He bade him good night, but Prescott hurried on without heeding him, and that was the last time he was ever seen alive.
Three days afterwards his body was found floating in St. Margaret’s Loch, under St. Anthony’s Chapel. No one could ever
understand it, but of course the verdict brought it in as temporary insanity.”

“It was very strange,” I remarked.

“Yes, and deucedly rough on the poor girl,” said Brodie. “Now that this other blow has come it will quite crush her.
So gentle and ladylike she is too!”

“You know her personally, then!” I asked.

“Oh, yes, I know her. I have met her several times. I could easily manage that you should be introduced to her.”

“Well,” I answered, “it’s not so much for my own sake as for a friend of mine. However, I don’t suppose she will go
out much for some little time after this. When she does I will take advantage of your offer.”

We shook hands on this, and I thought no more of the matter for some time.

The next incident which I have to relate as bearing at all upon the question of Miss Northcott is an unpleasant one.
Yet I must detail it as accurately as possible, since it may throw some light upon the sequel. One cold night, several
months after the conversation with my second cousin which I have quoted above, I was walking down one of the lowest
streets in the city on my way back from a case which I had been attending. It was very late, and I was picking my way
among the dirty loungers who were clustering round the doors of a great gin-palace, when a man staggered out from among
them, and held out his hand to me with a drunken leer. The gaslight fell full upon his face, and, to my intense
astonishment, I recognised in the degraded creature before me my former acquaintance, young Archibald Reeves, who had
once been famous as one of the most dressy and particular men in the whole college. I was so utterly surprised that for
a moment I almost doubted the evidence of my own senses; but there was no mistaking those features, which, though
bloated with drink, still retained something of their former comeliness. I was determined to rescue him, for one night
at least, from the company into which he had fallen.

“Holloa, Reeves!” I said. “Come along with me. I’m going in your direction.”

He muttered some incoherent apology for his condition, and took my arm. As I supported him towards his lodgings I
could see that he was not only suffering from the effects of a recent debauch, but that a long course of intemperance
had affected his nerves and his brain. His hand when I touched it was dry and feverish, and he started from every
shadow which fell upon the pavement. He rambled in his speech, too, in a manner which suggested the delirium of disease
rather than the talk of a drunkard.

When I got him to his lodgings I partially undressed him and laid him upon his bed. His pulse at this time was very
high, and he was evidently extremely feverish. He seemed to have sunk into a doze; and I was about to steal out of the
room to warn his landlady of his condition, when he started up and caught me by the sleeve of my coat.

“Don’t go!” he cried. “I feel better when you are here. I am safe from her then.”

“From her!” I said. “From whom?”

“Her! her!” he answered peevishly. “Ah! you don’t know her. She is the devil! Beautiful — beautiful; but the
devil!”

“You are feverish and excited,” I said. “Try and get a little sleep. You will wake better.”

“Sleep!” he groaned. “How am I to sleep when I see her sitting down yonder at the foot of the bed with her great
eyes watching and watching hour after hour? I tell you it saps all the strength and manhood out of me. That’s what
makes me drink. God help me — I’m half drunk now!”

“You are very ill,” I said, putting some vinegar to his temples; “and you are delirious. You don’t know what you
say.”

“Yes, I do,” he interrupted sharply, looking up at me. “I know very well what I say. I brought it upon myself. It is
my own choice. But I couldn’t — no, by heaven, I couldn’t — accept the alternative. I couldn’t keep my faith to her. It
was more than man could do.”

I sat by the side of the bed, holding one of his burning hands in mine, and wondering over his strange words. He lay
still for some time, and then, raising his eyes to me, said in a most plaintive voice —

“Why did she not give me warning sooner? Why did she wait until I had learned to love her so?”

He repeated this question several times, rolling his feverish head from side to side, and then he dropped into a
troubled sleep. I crept out of the room, and, having seen that he would be properly cared for, left the house. His
words, however, rang in my ears for days afterwards, and assumed a deeper significance when taken with what was to
come.

My friend, Barrington Cowles, had been away for his summer holidays, and I had heard nothing of him for several
months. When the winter session came on, however, I received a telegram from him, asking me to secure the old rooms in
Northumberland Street for him, and telling me the train by which he would arrive. I went down to meet him, and was
delighted to find him looking wonderfully hearty and well.

“By the way,” he said suddenly, that night, as we sat in our chairs by the fire, talking over the events of the
holidays, “you have never congratulated me yet!”

“On what, my boy?” I asked.

“What! Do you mean to say you have not heard of my engagement?”

“Engagement! No!” I answered. “However, I am delighted to hear it, and congratulate you with all my heart.”

“I wonder it didn’t come to your ears,” he said. “It was the queerest thing. You remember that girl whom we both
admired so much at the Academy?”

“What!” I cried, with a vague feeling of apprehension at my heart. “You don’t mean to say that you are engaged to
her?”

“I thought you would be surprised,” he answered. “When I was staying with an old aunt of mine in Peterhead, in
Aberdeenshire, the Northcotts happened to come there on a visit, and as we had mutual friends we soon met. I found out
that it was a false alarm about her being engaged, and then — well, you know what it is when you are thrown into the
society of such a girl in a place like Peterhead. Not, mind you,” he added, “that I consider I did a foolish or hasty
thing. I have never regretted it for a moment. The more I know Kate the more I admire her and love her. However, you
must be introduced to her, and then you will form your own opinion.”

I expressed my pleasure at the prospect, and endeavoured to speak as lightly as I could to Cowles upon the subject,
but I felt depressed and anxious at heart. The words of Reeves and the unhappy fate of young Prescott recurred to my
recollection, and though I could assign no tangible reason for it, a vague, dim fear and distrust of the woman took
possession of me. It may be that this was foolish prejudice and superstition upon my part, and that I involuntarily
contorted her future doings and sayings to fit into some half-formed wild theory of my own. This has been suggested to
me by others as an explanation of my narrative. They are welcome to their opinion if they can reconcile it with the
facts which I have to tell.

I went round with my friend a few days afterwards to call upon Miss Northcott. I remember that, as we went down
Abercrombie Place, our attention was attracted by the shrill yelping of a dog — which noise proved eventually to come
from the house to which we were bound. We were shown upstairs, where I was introduced to old Mrs. Merton, Miss
Northcott’s aunt, and to the young lady herself. She looked as beautiful as ever, and I could not wonder at my friend’s
infatuation. Her face was a little more flushed than usual, and she held in her hand a heavy dog-whip, with which she
had been chastising a small Scotch terrier, whose cries we had heard in the street. The poor brute was cringing up
against the wall, whining piteously, and evidently completely cowed.

“So Kate,” said my friend, after we had taken our seats, “you have been falling out with Carlo again.”

“Only a very little quarrel this time,” she said, smiling charmingly. “He is a dear, good old fellow, but he needs
correction now and then.” Then, turning to me, “We all do that, Mr. Armitage, don’t we? What a capital thing if,
instead of receiving a collective punishment at the end of our lives, we were to have one at once, as the dogs do, when
we did anything wicked. It would make us more careful, wouldn’t it?”

I acknowledged that it would.

“Supposing that every time a man misbehaved himself a gigantic hand were to seize him, and he were lashed with a
whip until he fainted”— she clenched her white fingers as she spoke, and cut out viciously with the dog-whip —“it would
do more to keep him good than any number of high-minded theories of morality.”

“Why, Kate,” said my friend, “you are quite savage today.”

“No, Jack,” she laughed. “I’m only propounding a theory for Mr. Armitage’s consideration.”

The two began to chat together about some Aberdeenshire reminiscence, and I had time to observe Mrs. Merton, who had
remained silent during our short conversation. She was a very strange-looking old lady. What attracted attention most
in her appearance was the utter want of colour which she exhibited. Her hair was snow-white, and her face extremely
pale. Her lips were bloodless, and even her eyes were of such a light tinge of blue that they hardly relieved the
general pallor. Her dress was a grey silk, which harmonised with her general appearance. She had a peculiar expression
of countenance, which I was unable at the moment to refer to its proper cause.

She was working at some old-fashioned piece of ornamental needlework, and as she moved her arms her dress gave forth
a dry, melancholy rustling, like the sound of leaves in the autumn. There was something mournful and depressing in the
sight of her. I moved my chair a little nearer, and asked her how she liked Edinburgh, and whether she had been there
long.

When I spoke to her she started and looked up at me with a scared look on her face. Then I saw in a moment what the
expression was which I had observed there. It was one of fear — intense and overpowering fear. It was so marked that I
could have staked my life on the woman before me having at some period of her life been subjected to some terrible
experience or dreadful misfortune.

“Oh, yes, I like it,” she said, in a soft, timid voice; “and we have been here long — that is, not very long. We
move about a great deal.” She spoke with hesitation, as if afraid of committing herself.

“You are a native of Scotland, I presume?” I said.

“No — that is, not entirely. We are not natives of any place. We are cosmopolitan, you know.” She glanced round in
the direction of Miss Northcott as she spoke, but the two were still chatting together near the window. Then she
suddenly bent forward to me, with a look of intense earnestness upon her face, and said —

“Don’t talk to me any more, please. She does not like it, and I shall suffer for it afterwards. Please, don’t do
it.”

I was about to ask her the reason for this strange request, but when she saw I was going to address her, she rose
and walked slowly out of the room. As she did so I perceived that the lovers had ceased to talk and that Miss Northcott
was looking at me with her keen, grey eyes.

“You must excuse my aunt, Mr. Armitage,” she said; “she is odd, and easily fatigued. Come over and look at my
album.”

We spent some time examining the portraits. Miss Northcott’s father and mother were apparently ordinary mortals
enough, and I could not detect in either of them any traces of the character which showed itself in their daughter’s
face. There was one old daguerreotype, however, which arrested my attention. It represented a man of about the age of
forty, and strikingly handsome. He was clean shaven, and extraordinary power was expressed upon his prominent lower jaw
and firm, straight mouth. His eyes were somewhat deeply set in his head, however, and there was a snake-like flattening
at the upper part of his forehead, which detracted from his appearance. I almost involuntarily, when I saw the head,
pointed to it, and exclaimed —

“There is your prototype in your family, Miss Northcott.”

“Do you think so?” she said. “I am afraid you are paying me a very bad compliment. Uncle Anthony was always
considered the black sheep of the family.”

“Indeed,” I answered; “my remark was an unfortunate one, then.”

“Oh, don’t mind that,” she said; “I always thought myself that he was worth all of them put together. He was an
officer in the Forty-first Regiment, and he was killed in action during the Persian War — so he died nobly, at any
rate.”

“That’s the sort of death I should like to die,” said Cowles, his dark eyes flashing, as they would when he was
excited; “I often wish I had taken to my father’s profession instead of this vile pill-compounding drudgery.”

“Come, Jack, you are not going to die any sort of death yet,” she said, tenderly taking his hand in hers.

I could not understand the woman. There was such an extraordinary mixture of masculine decision and womanly
tenderness about her, with the consciousness of something all her own in the background, that she fairly puzzled me. I
hardly knew, therefore, how to answer Cowles when, as we walked down the street together, he asked the comprehensive
question —

“Well, what do you think of her?”

“I think she is wonderfully beautiful,” I answered guardedly.

“That, of course,” he replied irritably. “You knew that before you came!”

“I think she is very clever too,” I remarked.

Barrington Cowles walked on for some time, and then he suddenly turned on me with the strange question —

“Do you think she is cruel? Do you think she is the sort of girl who would take a pleasure in inflicting pain?”

“Well, really,” I answered, “I have hardly had time to form an opinion.”

We then walked on for some time in silence.

“She is an old fool,” at length muttered Cowles. “She is mad.”

“Who is?” I asked.

“Why, that old woman — that aunt of Kate’s — Mrs. Merton, or whatever her name is.”

Then I knew that my poor colourless friend had been speaking to Cowles, but he never said anything more as to the
nature of her communication.

My companion went to bed early that night, and I sat up a long time by the fire, thinking over all that I had seen
and heard. I felt that there was some mystery about the girl — some dark fatality so strange as to defy conjecture. I
thought of Prescott’s interview with her before their marriage, and the fatal termination of it. I coupled it with poor
drunken Reeves’ plaintive cry, “Why did she not tell me sooner?” and with the other words he had spoken. Then my mind
ran over Mrs. Merton’s warning to me, Cowles’ reference to her, and even the episode of the whip and the cringing
dog.

The whole effect of my recollections was unpleasant to a degree, and yet there was no tangible charge which I could
bring against the woman. It would be worse than useless to attempt to warn my friend until I had definitely made up my
mind what I was to warn him against. He would treat any charge against her with scorn. What could I do? How could I get
at some tangible conclusion as to her character and antecedents? No one in Edinburgh knew them except as recent
acquaintances. She was an orphan, and as far as I knew she had never disclosed where her former home had been. Suddenly
an idea struck me. Among my father’s friends there was a Colonel Joyce, who had served a long time in India upon the
staff, and who would be likely to know most of the officers who had been out there since the Mutiny. I sat down at
once, and, having trimmed the lamp, proceeded to write a letter to the Colonel. I told him that I was very curious to
gain some particulars about a certain Captain Northcott, who had served in the Forty-first Foot, and who had fallen in
the Persian War. I described the man as well as I could from my recollection of the daguerreotype, and then, having
directed the letter, posted it that very night, after which, feeling that I had done all that could be done, I retired
to bed, with a mind too anxious to allow me to sleep.

Part 2.

I got an answer from Leicester, where the Colonel resided, within two days. I have it before me as I write, and copy
it verbatim.

“DEAR BOB,” it said, “I remember the man well. I was with him at Calcutta, and afterwards at Hyderabad. He was a
curious, solitary sort of mortal; but a gallant soldier enough, for he distinguished himself at Sobraon, and was
wounded, if I remember right. He was not popular in his corps — they said he was a pitiless, cold-blooded fellow, with
no geniality in him. There was a rumour, too, that he was a devil-worshipper, or something of that sort, and also that
he had the evil eye, which, of course, was all nonsense. He had some strange theories, I remember, about the power of
the human will and the effects of mind upon matter.

“How are you getting on with your medical studies? Never forget, my boy, that your father’s son has every claim upon
me, and that if I can serve you in any way I am always at your command.— Ever affectionately yours,

“EDWARD JOYCE.

“P.S.— By the way, Northcott did not fall in action. He was killed after peace was declared in a crazy attempt to
get some of the eternal fire from the sun-worshippers’ temple. There was considerable mystery about his death.”

I read this epistle over several times — at first with a feeling of satisfaction, and then with one of
disappointment. I had come on some curious information, and yet hardly what I wanted. He was an eccentric man, a
devil-worshipper, and rumoured to have the power of the evil eye. I could believe the young lady’s eyes, when endowed
with that cold, grey shimmer which I had noticed in them once or twice, to be capable of any evil which human eye ever
wrought; but still the superstition was an effete one. Was there not more meaning in that sentence which followed —“He
had theories of the power of the human will and of the effect of mind upon matter”? I remember having once read a
quaint treatise, which I had imagined to be mere charlatanism at the time, of the power of certain human minds, and of
effects produced by them at a distance.

Was Miss Northcott endowed with some exceptional power of the sort?

The idea grew upon me, and very shortly I had evidence which convinced me of the truth of the supposition.

It happened that at the very time when my mind was dwelling upon this subject, I saw a notice in the paper that our
town was to be visited by Dr. Messinger, the well-known medium and mesmerist. Messinger was a man whose performance,
such as it was, had been again and again pronounced to be genuine by competent judges. He was far above trickery, and
had the reputation of being the soundest living authority upon the strange pseudo-sciences of animal magnetism and
electro-biology. Determined, therefore, to see what the human will could do, even against all the disadvantages of
glaring footlights and a public platform, I took a ticket for the first night of the performance, and went with several
student friends.

We had secured one of the side boxes, and did not arrive until after the performance had begun. I had hardly taken
my seat before I recognised Barrington Cowles, with his fiancee and old Mrs. Merton, sitting in the third or fourth row
of the stalls. They caught sight of me at almost the same moment, and we bowed to each other. The first portion of the
lecture was somewhat commonplace, the lecturer giving tricks of pure legerdemain, with one or two manifestations of
mesmerism, performed upon a subject whom he had brought with him. He gave us an exhibition of clairvoyance too,
throwing his subject into a trance, and then demanding particulars as to the movements of absent friends, and the
whereabouts of hidden objects all of which appeared to be answered satisfactorily. I had seen all this before, however.
What I wanted to see now was the effect of the lecturer’s will when exerted upon some independent member of the
audience.

He came round to that as the concluding exhibition in his performance. “I have shown you,” he said, “that a
mesmerised subject is entirely dominated by the will of the mesmeriser. He loses all power of volition, and his very
thoughts are such as are suggested to him by the master-mind. The same end may be attained without any preliminary
process. A strong will can, simply by virtue of its strength, take possession of a weaker one, even at a distance, and
can regulate the impulses and the actions of the owner of it. If there was one man in the world who had a very much
more highly-developed will than any of the rest of the human family, there is no reason why he should not be able to
rule over them all, and to reduce his fellow-creatures to the condition of automatons. Happily there is such a dead
level of mental power, or rather of mental weakness, among us that such a catastrophe is not likely to occur; but still
within our small compass there are variations which produce surprising effects. I shall now single out one of the
audience, and endeavour ‘by the mere power of will’ to compel him to come upon the platform, and do and say what I
wish. Let me assure you that there is no collusion, and that the subject whom I may select is at perfect liberty to
resent to the uttermost any impulse which I may communicate to him.”

With these words the lecturer came to the front of the platform, and glanced over the first few rows of the stalls.
No doubt Cowles’ dark skin and bright eyes marked him out as a man of a highly nervous temperament, for the mesmerist
picked him out in a moment, and fixed his eyes upon him. I saw my friend give a start of surprise, and then settle down
in his chair, as if to express his determination not to yield to the influence of the operator. Messinger was not a man
whose head denoted any great brain-power, but his gaze was singularly intense and penetrating. Under the influence of
it Cowles made one or two spasmodic motions of his hands, as if to grasp the sides of his seat, and then half rose, but
only to sink down again, though with an evident effort. I was watching the scene with intense interest, when I happened
to catch a glimpse of Miss Northcott’s face. She was sitting with her eyes fixed intently upon the mesmerist, and with
such an expression of concentrated power upon her features as I have never seen on any other human countenance. Her jaw
was firmly set, her lips compressed, and her face as hard as if it were a beautiful sculpture cut out of the whitest
marble. Her eyebrows were drawn down, however, and from beneath them her grey eyes seemed to sparkle and gleam with a
cold light.

I looked at Cowles again, expecting every moment to see him rise and obey the mesmerist’s wishes, when there came
from the platform a short, gasping cry as of a man utterly worn out and prostrated by a prolonged struggle. Messinger
was leaning against the table, his hand to his forehead, and the perspiration pouring down his face. “I won’t go on,”
he cried, addressing the audience. “There is a stronger will than mine acting against me. You must excuse me for
to-night.” The man was evidently ill, and utterly unable to proceed, so the curtain was lowered, and the audience
dispersed, with many comments upon the lecturer’s sudden indisposition.

I waited outside the hall until my friend and the ladies came out. Cowles was laughing over his recent
experience.

“He didn’t succeed with me, Bob,” he cried triumphantly, as he shook my hand. “I think he caught a Tartar that
time.”

“Yes,” said Miss Northcott, “I think that Jack ought to be very proud of his strength of mind; don’t you! Mr.
Armitage?”

“It took me all my time, though,” my friend said seriously. “You can’t conceive what a strange feeling I had once or
twice. All the strength seemed to have gone out of me — especially just before he collapsed himself.”

I walked round with Cowles in order to see the ladies home. He walked in front with Mrs. Merton, and I found myself
behind with the young lady. For a minute or so I walked beside her without making any remark, and then I suddenly
blurted out, in a manner which must have seemed somewhat brusque to her —

“You did that, Miss Northcott.”

“Did what?” she asked sharply.

“Why, mesmerised the mesmeriser — I suppose that is the best way of describing the transaction.”

“What a strange idea!” she said, laughing. “You give me credit for a strong will then?”

“Yes,” I said. “For a dangerously strong one.”

“Why dangerous?” she asked, in a tone of surprise.

“I think,” I answered, “that any will which can exercise such power is dangerous — for there is always a chance of
its being turned to bad uses.”

“You would make me out a very dreadful individual, Mr. Armitage,” she said; and then looking up suddenly in my face
—“You have never liked me. You are suspicious of me and distrust me, though I have never given you cause.”

The accusation was so sudden and so true that I was unable to find any reply to it. She paused for a moment, and
then said in a voice which was hard and cold —

“Don’t let your prejudice lead you to interfere with me, however, or say anything to your friend, Mr. Cowles, which
might lead to a difference between us. You would find that to be very bad policy.”

There was something in the way she spoke which gave an indescribable air of a threat to these few words.

“I have no power,” I said, “to interfere with your plans for the future. I cannot help, however, from what I have
seen and heard, having fears for my friend.”

“Fears!” she repeated scornfully. “Pray what have you seen and heard. Something from Mr. Reeves, perhaps — I believe
he is another of your friends?”

“He never mentioned your name to me,” I answered, truthfully enough. “You will be sorry to hear that he is dying.”
As I said it we passed by a lighted window, and I glanced down to see what effect my words had upon her. She was
laughing — there was no doubt of it; she was laughing quietly to herself. I could see merriment in every feature of her
face. I feared and mistrusted the woman from that moment more than ever.

We said little more that night. When we parted she gave me a quick, warning glance, as if to remind me of what she
had said about the danger of interference. Her cautions would have made little difference to me could I have seen my
way to benefiting Barrington Cowles by anything which I might say. But what could I say? I might say that her former
suitors had been unfortunate. I might say that I believed her to be a cruel-hearted woman. I might say that I
considered her to possess wonderful, and almost preternatural powers. What impression would any of these accusations
make upon an ardent lover — a man with my friend’s enthusiastic temperament? I felt that it would be useless to advance
them, so I was silent.

And now I come to the beginning of the end. Hitherto much has been surmise and inference and hearsay. It is my
painful task to relate now, as dispassionately and as accurately as I can, what actually occurred under my own notice,
and to reduce to writing the events which preceded the death of my friend.

Towards the end of the winter Cowles remarked to me that he intended to marry Miss Northcott as soon as possible —
probably some time in the spring. He was, as I have already remarked, fairly well off, and the young lady had some
money of her own, so that there was no pecuniary reason for a long engagement. “We are going to take a little house out
at Corstorphine,” he said, “and we hope to see your face at our table, Bob, as often as you can possibly come.” I
thanked him, and tried to shake off my apprehensions, and persuade myself that all would yet be well.

It was about three weeks before the time fixed for the marriage, that Cowles remarked to me one evening that he
feared he would be late that night. “I have had a note from Kate,” he said, “asking me to call about eleven o’clock
to-night, which seems rather a late hour, but perhaps she wants to talk over something quietly after old Mrs. Merton
retires.”

It was not until after my friend’s departure that I suddenly recollected the mysterious interview which I had been
told of as preceding the suicide of young Prescott. Then I thought of the ravings of poor Reeves, rendered more tragic
by the fact that I had heard that very day of his death. What was the meaning of it all? Had this woman some baleful
secret to disclose which must be known before her marriage? Was it some reason which forbade her to marry? Or was it
some reason which forbade others to marry her? I felt so uneasy that I would have followed Cowles, even at the risk of
offending him, and endeavoured to dissuade him from keeping his appointment, but a glance at the clock showed me that I
was too late.

I was determined to wait up for his return, so I piled some coals upon the fire and took down a novel from the
shelf. My thoughts proved more interesting than the book, however, and I threw it on one side. An indefinable feeling
of anxiety and depression weighed upon me. Twelve o’clock came, and then half-past, without any sign of my friend. It
was nearly one when I heard a step in the street outside, and then a knocking at the door. I was surprised, as I knew
that my friend always carried a key — however, I hurried down and undid the latch. As the door flew open I knew in a
moment that my worst apprehensions had been fulfilled. Barrington Cowles was leaning against the railings outside with
his face sunk upon his breast, and his whole attitude expressive of the most intense despondency. As he passed in he
gave a stagger, and would have fallen had I not thrown my left arm around him. Supporting him with this, and holding
the lamp in my other hand, I led him slowly upstairs into our sitting-room. He sank down upon the sofa without a word.
Now that I could get a good view of him, I was horrified to see the change which had come over him. His face was deadly
pale, and his very lips were bloodless. His cheeks and forehead were clammy, his eyes glazed, and his whole expression
altered. He looked like a man who had gone through some terrible ordeal, and was thoroughly unnerved.

“My dear fellow, what is the matter?” I asked, breaking the silence. “Nothing amiss, I trust? Are you unwell?”

“Brandy!” he gasped. “Give me some brandy!”

I took out the decanter, and was about to help him, when he snatched it from me with a trembling hand, and poured
out nearly half a tumbler of the spirit. He was usually a most abstemious man, but he took this off at a gulp without
adding any water to it.

It seemed to do him good, for the colour began to come back to his face, and he leaned upon his elbow.

“My engagement is off, Bob,” he said, trying to speak calmly, but with a tremor in his voice which he could not
conceal. “It is all over.”

“Cheer up!” I answered, trying to encourage him.

“Don’t get down on your luck. How was it? What was it all about?”

“About?” he groaned, covering his face with his hands. “If I did tell you, Bob, you would not believe it. It is too
dreadful — too horrible — unutterably awful and incredible! O Kate, Kate!” and he rocked himself to and fro in his
grief; “I pictured you an angel and I find you a ——”

“A what?” I asked, for he had paused.

He looked at me with a vacant stare, and then suddenly burst out, waving his arms: “A fiend!” he cried. “A ghoul
from the pit! A vampire soul behind a lovely face! Now, God forgive me!” he went on in a lower tone, turning his face
to the wall; “I have said more than I should. I have loved her too much to speak of her as she is. I love her too much
now.”

He lay still for some time, and I had hoped that the brandy had had the effect of sending him to sleep, when he
suddenly turned his face towards me.

“Did you ever read of wehr-wolves?” he asked.

I answered that I had.

“There is a story,” he said thoughtfully, “in one of Marryat’s books, about a beautiful woman who took the form of a
wolf at night and devoured her own children. I wonder what put that idea into Marryat’s head?”

He pondered for some minutes, and then he cried out for some more brandy. There was a small bottle of laudanum upon
the table, and I managed, by insisting upon helping him myself, to mix about half a drachm with the spirits. He drank
it off, and sank his head once more upon the pillow. “Anything better than that,” he groaned. “Death is better than
that. Crime and cruelty; cruelty and crime. Anything is better than that,” and so on, with the monotonous refrain,
until at last the words became indistinct, his eyelids closed over his weary eyes, and he sank into a profound slumber.
I carried him into his bedroom without arousing him; and making a couch for myself out of the chairs, I remained by his
side all night.

In the morning Barrington Cowles was in a high fever. For weeks he lingered between life and death. The highest
medical skill of Edinburgh was called in, and his vigorous constitution slowly got the better of his disease. I nursed
him during this anxious time; but through all his wild delirium and ravings he never let a word escape him which
explained the mystery connected with Miss Northcott. Sometimes he spoke of her in the tenderest words and most loving
voice. At others he screamed out that she was a fiend, and stretched out his arms, as if to keep her off. Several times
he cried that he would not sell his soul for a beautiful face, and then he would moan in a most piteous voice, “But I
love her — I love her for all that; I shall never cease to love her.”

When he came to himself he was an altered man. His severe illness had emaciated him greatly, but his dark eyes had
lost none of their brightness. They shone out with startling brilliancy from under his dark, overhanging brows. His
manner was eccentric and variable — sometimes irritable, sometimes recklessly mirthful, but never natural. He would
glance about him in a strange, suspicious manner, like one who feared something, and yet hardly knew what it was he
dreaded. He never mentioned Miss Northcott’s name — never until that fatal evening of which I have now to speak.

In an endeavour to break the current of his thoughts by frequent change of scene, I travelled with him through the
highlands of Scotland, and afterwards down the east coast. In one of these peregrinations of ours we visited the Isle
of May, an island near the mouth of the Firth of Forth, which, except in the tourist season, is singularly barren and
desolate. Beyond the keeper of the lighthouse there are only one or two families of poor fisher-folk, who sustain a
precarious existence by their nets, and by the capture of cormorants and solan geese. This grim spot seemed to have
such a fascination for Cowles that we engaged a room in one of the fishermen’s huts, with the intention of passing a
week or two there. I found it very dull, but the loneliness appeared to be a relief to my friend’s mind. He lost the
look of apprehension which had become habitual to him, and became something like his old self.

He would wander round the island all day, looking down from the summit of the great cliffs which gird it round, and
watching the long green waves as they came booming in and burst in a shower of spray over the rocks beneath.

One night — I think it was our third or fourth on the island — Barrington Cowles and I went outside the cottage
before retiring to rest, to enjoy a little fresh air, for our room was small, and the rough lamp caused an unpleasant
odour. How well I remember every little circumstance in connection with that night! It promised to be tempestuous, for
the clouds were piling up in the north-west, and the dark wrack was drifting across the face of the moon, throwing
alternate belts of light and shade upon the rugged surface of the island and the restless sea beyond.

We were standing talking close by the door of the cottage, and I was thinking to myself that my friend was more
cheerful than he had been since his illness, when he gave a sudden, sharp cry, and looking round at him I saw, by the
light of the moon, an expression of unutterable horror come over his features. His eyes became fixed and staring, as if
riveted upon some approaching object, and he extended his long thin forefinger, which quivered as he pointed.

“Look there!” he cried. “It is she! It is she! You see her there coming down the side of the brae.” He gripped me
convulsively by the wrist as he spoke. “There she is, coming towards us!”

“Hold up, old man,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Pull yourself together; you are dreaming; there is
nothing to fear.”

“She is gone!” he cried, with a gasp of relief. “No, by heaven! there she is again, and nearer — coming nearer. She
told me she would come for me, and she keeps her word.”

“Come into the house,” I said. His hand, as I grasped it, was as cold as ice.

“Ah, I knew it!” he shouted. “There she is, waving her arms. She is beckoning to me. It is the signal. I must go. I
am coming, Kate; I am coming!”

I threw my arms around him, but he burst from me with superhuman strength, and dashed into the darkness of the
night. I followed him, calling to him to stop, but he ran the more swiftly. When the moon shone out between the clouds
I could catch a glimpse of his dark figure, running rapidly in a straight line, as if to reach some definite goal. It
may have been imagination, but it seemed to me that in the flickering light I could distinguish a vague something in
front of him — a shimmering form which eluded his grasp and led him onwards. I saw his outlines stand out hard against
the sky behind him as he surmounted the brow of a little hill, then he disappeared, and that was the last ever seen by
mortal eye of Barrington Cowles.

The fishermen and I walked round the island all that night with lanterns, and examined every nook and corner without
seeing a trace of my poor lost friend. The direction in which he had been running terminated in a rugged line of jagged
cliffs overhanging the sea. At one place here the edge was somewhat crumbled, and there appeared marks upon the turf
which might have been left by human feet. We lay upon our faces at this spot, and peered with our lanterns over the
edge, looking down on the boiling surge two hundred feet below. As we lay there, suddenly, above the beating of the
waves and the howling of the wind, there rose a strange wild screech from the abyss below. The fishermen — a naturally
superstitious race — averred that it was the sound of a woman’s laughter, and I could hardly persuade them to continue
the search. For my own part I think it may have been the cry of some sea-fowl startled from its nest by the flash of
the lantern. However that may be, I never wish to hear such a sound again.

And now I have come to the end of the painful duty which I have undertaken. I have told as plainly and as accurately
as I could the story of the death of John Barrington Cowles, and the train of events which preceded it. I am aware that
to others the sad episode seemed commonplace enough. Here is the prosaic account which appeared in the Scotsman a
couple of days afterwards:—

“Sad Occurrence on the Isle of May.— The Isle of May has been the scene of a sad disaster. Mr. John Barrington
Cowles, a gentleman well known in University circles as a most distinguished student, and the present holder of the
Neil Arnott prize for physics, has been recruiting his health in this quiet retreat. The night before last he suddenly
left his friend, Mr. Robert Armitage, and he has not since been heard of. It is almost certain that he has met his
death by falling over the cliffs which surround the island. Mr. Cowles’ health has been failing for some time, partly
from over study and partly from worry connected with family affairs. By his death the University loses one of her most
promising alumni.”

I have nothing more to add to my statement. I have unburdened my mind of all that I know. I can well conceive that
many, after weighing all that I have said, will see no ground for an accusation against Miss Northcott. They will say
that, because a man of a naturally excitable disposition says and does wild things, and even eventually commits
self-murder after a sudden and heavy disappointment, there is no reason why vague charges should be advanced against a
young lady. To this, I answer that they are welcome to their opinion. For my own part, I ascribe the death of William
Prescott, of Archibald Reeves, and of John Barrington Cowles to this woman with as much confidence as if I had seen her
drive a dagger into their hearts.

You ask me, no doubt, what my own theory is which will explain all these strange facts. I have none, or, at best, a
dim and vague one. That Miss Northcott possessed extraordinary powers over the minds, and through the minds over the
bodies, of others, I am convinced, as well as that her instincts were to use this power for base and cruel purposes.
That some even more fiendish and terrible phase of character lay behind this — some horrible trait which it was
necessary for her to reveal before marriage — is to be inferred from the experience of her three lovers, while the
dreadful nature of the mystery thus revealed can only be surmised from the fact that the very mention of it drove from
her those who had loved her so passionately. Their subsequent fate was, in my opinion, the result of her vindictive
remembrance of their desertion of her, and that they were forewarned of it at the time was shown by the words of both
Reeves and Cowles. Above this, I can say nothing. I lay the facts soberly before the public as they came under my
notice. I have never seen Miss Northcott since, nor do I wish to do so. If by the words I have written I can save any
one human being from the snare of those bright eyes and that beautiful face, then I can lay down my pen with the
assurance that my poor friend has not died altogether in vain.

Elias B. Hopkins, the Parson of Jackman’s Gulch

He was known in the Gulch as the Reverend Elias B. Hopkins, but it was generally understood that the
title was an honorary one, extorted by his many eminent qualities, and not borne out by any legal claim which he could
adduce. “The Parson” was another of his sobriquets, which was sufficiently distinctive in a land where the flock was
scattered and the shepherds few. To do him justice, he never pretended to have received any preliminary training for
the ministry, or any orthodox qualification to practise it. “We’re all working in the claim of the Lord,” he remarked
one day, “and it don’t matter a cent whether we’re hired for the job or whether we waltzes in on our own account,” a
piece of rough imagery which appealed directly to the instincts of Jackman’s Gulch. It is quite certain that during the
first few months his presence had a marked effect in diminishing the excessive use both of strong drinks and of
stronger adjectives which had been characteristic of the little mining settlement. Under his tuition, men began to
understand that the resources of their native language were less limited than they had supposed, and that it was
possible to convey their impressions with accuracy without the aid of a gaudy halo of profanity.

We were certainly in need of a regenerator at Jackman’s Gulch about the beginning of ‘53. Times were flush then over
the whole colony, but nowhere flusher than there. Our material prosperity had had a bad effect upon our morals. The
camp was a small one, lying rather better than a hundred and twenty miles to the north of Ballarat, at a spot where a
mountain torrent finds its way down a rugged ravine on its way to join the Arrowsmith River. History does not relate
who the original Jackman may have been, but at the time I speak of the camp it contained a hundred or so adults, many
of whom were men who had sought an asylum there after making more civilised mining centres too hot to hold them. They
were a rough, murderous crew, hardly leavened by the few respectable members of society who were scattered among
them.

Communication between Jackman’s Gulch and the outside world was difficult and uncertain. A portion of the bush
between it and Ballarat was infested by a redoubtable outlaw named Conky Jim, who, with a small band as desperate as
himself, made travelling a dangerous matter. It was customary, therefore, at the Gulch, to store up the dust and
nuggets obtained from the mines in a special store, each man’s share being placed in a separate bag on which his name
was marked. A trusty man, named Woburn, was deputed to watch over this primitive bank. When the amount deposited became
considerable, a waggon was hired, and the whole treasure was conveyed to Ballarat, guarded by the police and by a
certain number of miners, who took it in turn to perform the office. Once in Ballarat, it was forwarded on to Melbourne
by the regular gold waggons. By this plan the gold was often kept for months in the Gulch before being despatched, but
Conky Jim was effectually checkmated, as the escort party were far too strong for him and his gang. He appeared, at the
time of which I write, to have forsaken his haunts in disgust, and the road could be traversed by small parties with
impunity.

Comparative order used to reign during the daytime at Jackman’s Gulch, for the majority of the inhabitants were out
with crowbar and pick among the quartz ledges, or washing clay and sand in their cradles by the banks of the little
stream. As the sun sank down, however, the claims were gradually deserted, and their unkempt owners, clay-bespattered
and shaggy, came lounging into camp, ripe for any form of mischief. Their first visit was to Woburn’s gold store, where
their clean-up of the day was duly deposited, the amount being entered in the storekeeper’s book, and each miner
retaining enough to cover his evening’s expenses. After that, all restraint was at an end, and each set to work to get
rid of his surplus dust with the greatest rapidity possible. The focus of dissipation was the rough bar, formed by a
couple of hogsheads spanned by planks, which was dignified by the name of the “Britannia Drinking Saloon.” Here Nat
Adams, the burly bar-keeper, dispensed bad whisky at the rate of two shillings a noggin, or a guinea a bottle, while
his brother Ben acted as croupier in a rude wooden shanty behind, which had been converted into a gambling hell, and
was crowded every night. There had been a third brother, but an unfortunate misunderstanding with a customer had
shortened his existence. “He was too soft to live long,” his brother Nathaniel feelingly observed, on the occasion of
his funeral. “Many’s the time I’ve said to him, ‘If you’re arguin’ a pint with a stranger, you should always draw
first, then argue, and then shoot, if you judge that he’s on the shoot.’ Bill was too purlite. He must needs argue
first and draw after, when he might just as well have kivered his man before talkin’ it over with him.” This amiable
weakness of the deceased Bill was a blow to the firm of Adams, which became so short-handed that the concern could
hardly be worked without the admission of a partner, which would mean a considerable decrease in the profits.

Nat Adams had had a roadside shanty in the Gulch before the discovery of gold, and might, therefore, claim to be the
oldest inhabitant. These keepers of shanties were a peculiar race, and at the cost of a digression it may be
interesting to explain how they managed to amass considerable sums of money in a land where travellers were few and far
between. It was the custom of the “bushmen,” i.e., bullock-drivers, sheep tenders, and the other white hands who worked
on the sheep-runs up country, to sign articles by which they agreed to serve their master for one, two, or three years
at so much per year and certain daily rations. Liquor was never included in this agreement, and the men remained, per
force, total abstainers during the whole time. The money was paid in a lump sum at the end of the engagement. When that
day came round, Jimmy, the stockman, would come slouching into his master’s office, cabbage-tree hat in hand.

“There’s sixty pound screw,” Jimmy answers thoughtfully; “and you mind, master, last March, when the brindled bull
broke out o’ the paddock. Two pound you promised me then. And a pound at the dipping. And a pound when Millar’s sheep
got mixed with ourn;” and so he goes on, for bushmen can seldom write, but they have memories which nothing
escapes.

His master writes the cheque and hands it across the table. “Don’t get on the drink, Jimmy,” he says.

“No fear of that, master,” and the stockman slips the cheque into his leather pouch, and within an hour he is
ambling off upon his long-limbed horse on his hundred-mile journey to town.

Now Jimmy has to pass some six or eight of the above-mentioned roadside shanties in his day’s ride, and experience
has taught him that if he once breaks his accustomed total abstinence, the unwonted stimulant has an overpowering
effect upon his brain. Jimmy shakes his head warily as he determines that no earthly consideration will induce him to
partake of any liquor until his business is over. His only chance is to avoid temptation; so, knowing that there is the
first of these houses some half-mile ahead, he plunges into a byepath through the bush which will lead him out at the
other side.

Jimmy is riding resolutely along this narrow path, congratulating himself upon a danger escaped, when he becomes
aware of a sunburned, black-bearded man who is leaning unconcernedly against a tree beside the track. This is none
other than the shanty-keeper, who, having observed Jimmy’s manoeuvre in the distance, has taken a short cut through the
bush in order to intercept him.

“Morning, Jimmy!” he cries, as the horseman comes up to him.

“Morning, mate; morning!”

“Where are ye off to today then?”

“Off to town,” says Jimmy sturdily.

“No, now — are you though? You’ll have bully times down there for a bit. Come round and have a drink at my place.
Just by way of luck.”

“No,” says Jimmy, “I don’t want a drink.”

“Just a little damp.”

“I tell ye I don’t want one,” says the stockman angrily.

“Well, ye needn’t be so darned short about it. It’s nothin’ to me whether you drinks or not. Good mornin’.”

“Good mornin’,” says Jimmy, and has ridden on about twenty yards when he hears the other calling on him to stop.

“See here, Jimmy!” he says, overtaking him again. “If you’ll do me a kindness when you’re up in town I’d be
obliged.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a letter, Jim, as I wants posted. It’s an important one too, an’ I wouldn’t trust it with every one; but I
knows you, and if you’ll take charge on it it’ll be a powerful weight off my mind.”

“Give it here,” Jimmy says laconically.

“I hain’t got it here. It’s round in my caboose. Come round for it with me. It ain’t more’n quarter of a mile.”

Jimmy consents reluctantly. When they reach the tumble-down hut the keeper asks him cheerily to dismount and to come
in.

“Give me the letter,” says Jimmy.

“It ain’t altogether wrote yet, but you sit down here for a minute and it’ll be right,” and so the stockman is
beguiled into the shanty.

At last the letter is ready and handed over. “Now, Jimmy,” says the keeper, “one drink at my expense before you
go.”

“Not a taste,” says Jimmy.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” the other says in an aggrieved tone. “You’re too damned proud to drink with a poor cove like
me. Here — give us back that letter. I’m cursed if I’ll accept a favour from a man whose too almighty big to have a
drink with me.”

The keeper pours out about half a pannikin of raw rum and hands it to the bushman. The moment he smells the old
familiar smell his longing for it returns, and he swigs it off at a gulp. His eyes shine more brightly and his face
becomes flushed. The keeper watches him narrowly. “You can go now, Jim,” he says.

“Steady, mate, steady,” says the bushman. “I’m as good a man as you. If you stand a drink I can stand one too, I
suppose.” So the pannikin is replenished, and Jimmy’s eyes shine brighter still.

“Now, Jimmy, one last drink for the good of the house,” says the keeper, “and then it’s time you were off.” The
stockman has a third gulp from the pannikin, and with it all his scruples and good resolutions vanish for ever.

“Look here,” he says somewhat huskily, taking his cheque out of his pouch. “You take this, mate. Whoever comes along
this road, ask ’em what they’ll have, and tell them it’s my shout. Let me know when the money’s done.”

So Jimmy abandons the idea of ever getting to town, and for three weeks or a month he lies about the shanty in a
state of extreme drunkenness, and reduces every wayfarer upon the road to the same condition. At last one fine morning
the keeper comes to him. “The coin’s done, Jimmy,” he says; “it’s about time you made some more.” So Jimmy has a good
wash to sober him, straps his blanket and his billy to his back, and rides off through the bush to the sheeprun, where
he has another year of sobriety, terminating in another month of intoxication.

All this, though typical of the happy-go-lucky manners of the inhabitants, has no direct bearing upon Jackman’s
Gulch, so we must return to that Arcadian settlement. Additions to the population there were not numerous, and such as
came about the time of which I speak were even rougher and fiercer than the original inhabitants. In particular, there
came a brace of ruffians named Phillips and Maule, who rode into camp one day, and started a claim upon the other side
of the stream. They outgulched the Gulch in the virulence and fluency of their blasphemy, in the truculence of their
speech and manner, and in their reckless disregard of all social laws. They claimed to have come from Bendigo, and
there were some amongst us who wished that the redoubted Conky Jim was on the track once more, as long as he would
close it to such visitors as these. After their arrival the nightly proceedings at the Britannia bar and at the
gambling hell behind it became more riotous than ever. Violent quarrels, frequently ending in bloodshed, were of
constant occurrence. The more peaceable frequenters of the bar began to talk seriously of lynching the two strangers
who were the principal promoters of disorder. Things were in this unsatisfactory condition when our evangelist, Elias
B. Hopkins, came limping into the camp, travel-stained and footsore, with his spade strapped across his back, and his
Bible in the pocket of his moleskin jacket.

His presence was hardly noticed at first, so insignificant was the man. His manner was quiet and unobtrusive, his
face pale, and his figure fragile. On better acquaintance, however, there was a squareness and firmness about his
clean-shaven lower jaw, and an intelligence in his widely-opened blue eyes, which marked him as a man of character. He
erected a small hut for himself, and started a claim close to that occupied by the two strangers who had preceded him.
This claim was chosen with a ludicrous disregard for all practical laws of mining, and at once stamped the newcomer as
being a green hand at his work. It was piteous to observe him every morning as we passed to our work, digging and
delving with the greatest industry, but, as we knew well, without the smallest possibility of any result. He would
pause for a moment as we went by, wipe his pale face with his bandanna handkerchief, and shout out to us a cordial
morning greeting, and then fall to again with redoubled energy. By degrees we got into the way of making a
half-pitying, half-contemptuous inquiry as to how he got on. “I hain’t struck it yet, boys,” he would answer cheerily,
leaning on his spade, “but the bedrock lies deep just hereabouts, and I reckon we’ll get among the pay gravel today.”
Day after day he returned the same reply with unvarying confidence and cheerfulness.

It was not long before he began to show us the stuff that was in him. One night the proceedings were unusually
violent at the drinking saloon. A rich pocket had been struck during the day, and the striker was standing treat in a
lavish and promiscuous fashion which had reduced three parts of the settlement to a state of wild intoxication. A crowd
of drunken idlers stood or lay about the bar, cursing, swearing, shouting, dancing, and here and there firing their
pistols into the air out of pure wantonness. From the interior of the shanty behind there came a similar chorus. Maule,
Phillips, and the roughs who followed them were in the ascendant, and all order and decency was swept away.

Suddenly, amid this tumult of oaths and drunken cries, men became conscious of a quiet monotone which underlay all
other sounds and obtruded itself at every pause in the uproar. Gradually first one man and then another paused to
listen, until there was a general cessation of the hubbub, and every eye was turned in the direction whence this quiet
stream of words flowed. There, mounted upon a barrel, was Elias B. Hopkins, the newest of the inhabitants of Jackman’s
Gulch, with a good-humoured smile upon his resolute face.

He held an open Bible in his hand, and was reading aloud a passage taken at random — an extract from the Apocalypse,
if I remember right. The words were entirely irrelevant and without the smallest bearing upon the scene before him, but
he plodded on with great unction, waving his left hand slowly to the cadence of his words.

There was a general shout of laughter and applause at this apparition, and Jackman’s Gulch gathered round the barrel
approvingly, under the impression that this was some ornate joke, and that they were about to be treated to some mock
sermon or parody of the chapter read. When, however, the reader, having finished the chapter, placidly commenced
another, and having finished that rippled on into another one, the revellers came to the conclusion that the joke was
somewhat too long-winded. The commencement of yet another chapter confirmed this opinion, and an angry chorus of shouts
and cries, with suggestions as to gagging the reader or knocking him off the barrel, rose from every side. In spite of
roars and hoots, however, Elias B. Hopkins plodded away at the Apocalypse with the same serene countenance, looking as
ineffably contented as though the babel around him were the most gratifying applause. Before long an occasional boot
pattered against the barrel or whistled past our parson’s head; but here some of the more orderly of the inhabitants
interfered in favour of peace and order, aided curiously enough by the afore-mentioned Maule and Phillips, who warmly
espoused the cause of the little Scripture reader. “The little cus has got grit in him,” the latter explained, rearing
his bulky red-shirted form between the crowd and the object of its anger. “His ways ain’t our ways, and we’re all
welcome to our opinions, and to sling them round from barrels or otherwise if so minded. What I says and Bill says is,
that when it comes to slingin’ boots instead o’ words it’s too steep by half, an’ if this man’s wronged we’ll chip in
an’ see him righted.” This oratorical effort had the effect of checking the more active signs of disapproval, and the
party of disorder attempted to settle down once more to their carouse, and to ignore the shower of Scripture which was
poured upon them. The attempt was hopeless. The drunken portion fell asleep under the drowsy refrain, and the others,
with many a sullen glance at the imperturbable reader, slouched off to their huts, leaving him still perched upon the
barrel. Finding himself alone with the more orderly of the spectators, the little man rose, closed his book, after
methodically marking with a lead pencil the exact spot at which he stopped, and descended from his perch. “To-morrow
night, boys,” he remarked in his quiet voice, “the reading will commence at the 9th verse of the 15th chapter of the
Apocalypse,” with which piece of information, disregarding our congratulations, he walked away with the air of a man
who has performed an obvious duty.

We found that his parting words were no empty threat. Hardly had the crowd begun to assemble next night before he
appeared once more upon the barrel and began to read with the same monotonous vigour, tripping over words! muddling up
sentences, but still boring along through chapter after chapter. Laughter, threats, chaff — every weapon short of
actual violence — was used to deter him, but all with the same want of success. Soon it was found that there was a
method in his proceedings. When silence reigned, or when the conversation was of an innocent nature, the reading
ceased. A single word of blasphemy, however, set it going again, and it would ramble on for a quarter of an hour or so,
when it stopped, only to be renewed upon similar provocation. The reading was pretty continuous during that second
night, for the language of the opposition was still considerably free. At least it was an improvement upon the night
before.

For more than a month Elias B. Hopkins carried on this campaign. There he would sit, night after night, with the
open book upon his knee, and at the slightest provocation off he would go, like a musical box when the spring is
touched. The monotonous drawl became unendurable, but it could only be avoided by conforming to the parson’s code. A
chronic swearer came to be looked upon with disfavour by the community, since the punishment of his transgression fell
upon all. At the end of a fortnight the reader was silent more than half the time, and at the end of the month his
position was a sinecure.

Never was a moral revolution brought about more rapidly and more completely. Our parson carried his principle into
private life. I have seen him, on hearing an unguarded word from some worker in the gulches, rush across, Bible in
hand, and perching himself upon the heap of red clay which surmounted the offender’s claim, drawl through the
genealogical tree at the commencement of the New Testament in a most earnest and impressive manner, as though it were
especially appropriate to the occasion. In time, an oath became a rare thing amongst us. Drunkenness was on the wane
too. Casual travellers passing through the Gulch used to marvel at our state of grace, and rumours of it went as far as
Ballarat, and excited much comment therein.

There were points about our evangelist which made him especially fitted for the work which he had undertaken. A man
entirely without redeeming vices would have had no common basis on which to work, and no means of gaining the sympathy
of his flock. As we came to know Elias B. Hopkins better, we discovered that in spite of his piety there was a leaven
of old Adam in him, and that he had certainly known unregenerate days. He was no teetotaler. On the contrary, he could
choose his liquor with discrimination, and lower it in an able manner. He played a masterly hand at poker, and there
were few who could touch him at “cut-throat euchre.” He and the two ex-ruffians, Phillips and Maule, used to play for
hours in perfect harmony, except when the fall of the cards elicited an oath from one of his companions. At the first
of these offences the parson would put on a pained smile, and gaze reproachfully at the culprit. At the second he would
reach for his Bible, and the game was over for the evening. He showed us he was a good revolver shot too, for when we
were practising at an empty brandy bottle outside Adams’ bar, he took up a friend’s pistol and hit it plumb in the
centre at twenty-four paces. There were few things he took up that he could not make a show at apparently, except
gold-digging, and at that he was the veriest duffer alive. It was pitiful to see the little canvas bag, with his name
printed across it, lying placid and empty upon the shelf at Woburn’s store, while all the other bags were increasing
daily, and some had assumed quite a portly rotundity of form, for the weeks were slipping by, and it was almost time
for the gold-train to start off for Ballarat. We reckoned that the amount which we had stored at the time represented
the greatest sum which had ever been taken by a single convoy out of Jackman’s Gulch.

Although Elias B. Hopkins appeared to derive a certain quiet satisfaction from the wonderful change which he had
effected in the camp, his joy was not yet rounded and complete. There was one thing for which he still yearned. He
opened his heart to us about it one evening.

“We’d have a blessing on the camp, boys,” he said, “if we only had a service o’ some sort on the Lord’s day. It’s a
temptin’ o’ Providence to go on in this way without takin’ any notice of it, except that maybe there’s more whisky
drunk and more card playin’ than on any other day.”

“We hain’t got no parson,” objected one of the crowd.

“Ye fool!” growled another, “hain’t we got a man as is worth any three parsons, and can splash texts around like
clay out o’ a cradle. What more d’ye want?”

“We hain’t got no church!” urged the same dissentient.

“Have it in the open air,” one suggested.

“Or in Woburn’s store,” said another.

“Or in Adams’ saloon.”

The last proposal was received with a buzz of approval, which showed that it was considered the most appropriate
locality.

Adams’ saloon was a substantial wooden building in the rear of the bar, which was used partly for storing liquor and
partly for a gambling saloon. It was strongly built of rough-hewn logs, the proprietor rightly judging, in the
unregenerate days of Jackman’s Gulch, that hogsheads of brandy and rum were commodities which had best be secured under
lock and key. A strong door opened into each end of the saloon, and the interior was spacious enough, when the table
and lumber were cleared away, to accommodate the whole population. The spirit barrels were heaped together at one end
by their owner, so as to make a very fair imitation of a pulpit.

At first the Gulch took but a mild interest in the proceedings, but when it became known that Elias B. Hopkins
intended, after reading the service, to address the audience, the settlement began to warm up to the occasion. A real
sermon was a novelty to all of them, and one coming from their own parson was additionally so. Rumour announced that it
would be interspersed with local hits, and that the moral would be pointed by pungent personalities. Men began to fear
that they would be unable to gain seats, and many applications were made to the brothers Adams. It was only when
conclusively shown that the saloon could contain them all with a margin that the camp settled down into calm
expectancy.

It was as well that the building was of such a size, for the assembly upon the Sunday morning was the largest which
had ever occurred in the annals of Jackman’s Gulch. At first it was thought that the whole population was present, but
a little reflection showed that this was not so. Maule and Phillips had gone on a prospecting journey among the hills,
and had not returned as yet, and Woburn, the gold-keeper, was unable to leave his store. Having a very large quantity
of the precious metal under his charge, he stuck to his post, feeling that the responsibility was too great to trifle
with. With these three exceptions the whole of the Gulch, with clean red shirts, and such other additions to their
toilet as the occasion demanded, sauntered in a straggling line along the clayey pathway which led up to the
saloon.

The interior of the building had been provided with rough benches, and the parson, with his quiet good-humoured
smile, was standing at the door to welcome them. “Good morning, boys,” he cried cheerily, as each group came lounging
up. “Pass in; pass in. You’ll find this is as good a morning’s work as any you’ve done. Leave your pistols in this
barrel outside the door as you pass; you can pick them out as you come out again, but it isn’t the thing to carry
weapons into the house of peace.” His request was good-humouredly complied with, and before the last of the
congregation filed in, there was a strange assortment of knives and firearms in this depository. When all had
assembled, the doors were shut, and the service began — the first and the last which was ever performed at Jackman’s
Gulch.

The weather was sultry and the room close, yet the miners listened with exemplary patience. There was a sense of
novelty in the situation which had its attractions. To some it was entirely new, others were wafted back by it to
another land and other days. Beyond a disposition which was exhibited by the uninitiated to applaud at the end of
certain prayers, by way of showing that they sympathised with the sentiments expressed, no audience could have behaved
better. There was a murmur of interest, however, when Elias B. Hopkins, looking down on the congregation from his
rostrum of casks, began his address.

He had attired himself with care in honour of the occasion. He wore a velveteen tunic, girt round the waist with a
sash of china silk, a pair of moleskin trousers, and held his cabbage-tree hat in his left hand. He began speaking in a
low tone, and it was noticed at the time that he frequently glanced through the small aperture which served for a
window which was placed above the heads of those who sat beneath him.

“I’ve put you straight now,” he said, in the course of his address; “I’ve got you in the right rut if you will but
stick in it.” Here he looked very hard out of the window for some seconds. “You’ve learned soberness and industry, and
with those things you can always make up any loss you may sustain. I guess there isn’t one of ye that won’t remember my
visit to this camp.” He paused for a moment, and three revolver shots rang out upon the quiet summer air. “Keep your
seats, damn ye!” roared our preacher, as his audience rose in excitement. “If a man of ye moves down he goes! The
door’s locked on the outside, so ye can’t get out anyhow. Your seats, ye canting, chuckle-headed fools! Down with ye,
ye dogs, or I’ll fire among ye!”

Astonishment and fear brought us back into our seats, and we sat staring blankly at our pastor and each other. Elias
B. Hopkins, whose whole face and even figure appeared to have undergone an extraordinary alteration, looked fiercely
down on us from his commanding position, with a contemptuous smile on his stern face.

“I have your lives in my hands,” he remarked; and we noticed as he spoke that he held a heavy revolver in his hand,
and that the butt of another one protruded from his sash. “I am armed and you are not. If one of you moves or speaks he
is a dead man. If not, I shall not harm you. You must wait here for an hour. Why, you FOOLS” (this with a hiss of
contempt which rang in our ears for many a long day), “do you know who it is that has stuck you up? Do you know who it
is that has been playing it upon you for months as a parson and a saint? Conky Jim, the bushranger, ye apes. And
Phillips and Maule were my two right-hand men. They’re off into the hills with your gold —— Ha! would ye?” This to some
restive member of the audience, who quieted down instantly before the fierce eye and the ready weapon of the
bushranger. “In an hour they will be clear of any pursuit, and I advise you to make the best of it, and not to follow,
or you may lose more than your money. My horse is tethered outside this door behind me. When the time is up I shall
pass through it, lock it on the outside, and be off. Then you may break your way out as best you can. I have no more to
say to you, except that ye are the most cursed set of asses that ever trod in boot-leather.”

We had time to endorse mentally this outspoken opinion during the long sixty minutes which followed; we were
powerless before the resolute desperado. It is true that if we made a simultaneous rush we might bear him down at the
cost of eight or ten of our number. But how could such a rush be organised without speaking, and who would attempt it
without a previous agreement that he would be supported? There was nothing for it but submission. It seemed three hours
at the least before the ranger snapped up his watch, stepped down from the barrel, walked backwards, still covering us
with his weapon, to the door behind him, and then passed rapidly through it. We heard the creaking of the rusty lock,
and the clatter of his horse’s hoofs, as he galloped away.

It has been remarked that an oath had, for the last few weeks, been a rare thing in the camp. We made up for our
temporary abstention during the next half-hour. Never was heard such symmetrical and heartfelt blasphemy. When at last
we succeeded in getting the door off its hinges all sight of both rangers and treasure had disappeared, nor have we
ever caught sight of either the one or the other since. Poor Woburn, true to his trust, lay shot through the head
across the threshold of his empty store. The villains, Maule and Phillips, had descended upon the camp the instant that
we had been enticed into the trap, murdered the keeper, loaded up a small cart with the booty, and got safe away to
some wild fastness among the mountains, where they were joined by their wily leader.

Jackman’s Gulch recovered from this blow, and is now a flourishing township. Social reformers are not in request
there, however, and morality is at a discount. It is said that an inquest has been held lately upon an unoffending
stranger who chanced to remark that in so large a place it would be advisable to have some form of Sunday service. The
memory of their one and only pastor is still green among the inhabitants, and will be for many a long year to come.

The Ring of Thoth

Mr. John Vansittart Smith, F.R.S., of 147-A Gower Street, was a man whose energy of purpose and
clearness of thought might have placed him in the very first rank of scientific observers. He was the victim, however,
of a universal ambition which prompted him to aim at distinction in many subjects rather than preeminence in one.

In his early days he had shown an aptitude for zoology and for botany which caused his friends to look upon him as a
second Darwin, but when a professorship was almost within his reach he had suddenly discontinued his studies and turned
his whole attention to chemistry. Here his researches upon the spectra of the metals had won him his fellowship in the
Royal Society; but again he played the coquette with his subject, and after a year’s absence from the laboratory he
joined the Oriental Society, and delivered a paper on the Hieroglyphic and Demotic inscriptions of El Kab, thus giving
a crowning example both of the versatility and of the inconstancy of his talents.

The most fickle of wooers, however, is apt to be caught at last, and so it was with John Vansittart Smith. The more
he burrowed his way into Egyptology the more impressed he became by the vast field which it opened to the inquirer, and
by the extreme importance of a subject which promised to throw a light upon the first germs of human civilisation and
the origin of the greater part of our arts and sciences. So struck was Mr. Smith that he straightway married an
Egyptological young lady who had written upon the sixth dynasty, and having thus secured a sound base of operations he
set himself to collect materials for a work which should unite the research of Lepsius and the ingenuity of
Champollion. The preparation of this magnum opus entailed many hurried visits to the magnificent Egyptian collections
of the Louvre, upon the last of which, no longer ago than the middle of last October, he became involved in a most
strange and noteworthy adventure.

The trains had been slow and the Channel had been rough, so that the student arrived in Paris in a somewhat befogged
and feverish condition. On reaching the Hotel de France, in the Rue Laffitte, he had thrown himself upon a sofa for a
couple of hours, but finding that he was unable to sleep, he determined, in spite of his fatigue, to make his way to
the Louvre, settle the point which he had come to decide, and take the evening train back to Dieppe. Having come to
this conclusion, he donned his greatcoat, for it was a raw rainy day, and made his way across the Boulevard des
Italiens and down the Avenue de l’Opera. Once in the Louvre he was on familiar ground, and he speedily made his way to
the collection of papyri which it was his intention to consult.

The warmest admirers of John Vansittart Smith could hardly claim for him that he was a handsome man. His high-beaked
nose and prominent chin had something of the same acute and incisive character which distinguished his intellect. He
held his head in a birdlike fashion, and birdlike, too, was the pecking motion with which, in conversation, he threw
out his objections and retorts. As he stood, with the high collar of his greatcoat raised to his ears, he might have
seen from the reflection in the glass-case before him that his appearance was a singular one. Yet it came upon him as a
sudden jar when an English voice behind him exclaimed in very audible tones, “What a queer-looking mortal!”

The student had a large amount of petty vanity in his composition which manifested itself by an ostentatious and
overdone disregard of all personal considerations. He straightened his lips and looked rigidly at the roll of papyrus,
while his heart filled with bitterness against the whole race of travelling Britons.

“Yes,” said another voice, “he really is an extraordinary fellow.”

“Do you know,” said the first speaker, “one could almost believe that by the continual contemplation of mummies the
chap has become half a mummy himself?”

“He has certainly an Egyptian cast of countenance,” said the other.

John Vansittart Smith spun round upon his heel with the intention of shaming his countrymen by a corrosive remark or
two. To his surprise and relief, the two young fellows who had been conversing had their shoulders turned towards him,
and were gazing at one of the Louvre attendants who was polishing some brass-work at the other side of the room.

“Carter will be waiting for us at the Palais Royal,” said one tourist to the other, glancing at his watch, and they
clattered away, leaving the student to his labours.

“I wonder what these chatterers call an Egyptian cast of countenance,” thought John Vansittart Smith, and he moved
his position slightly in order to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. He started as his eyes fell upon it. It was indeed
the very face with which his studies had made him familiar. The regular statuesque features, broad brow, well-rounded
chin, and dusky complexion were the exact counterpart of the innumerable statues, mummy-cases, and pictures which
adorned the walls of the apartment.

The thing was beyond all coincidence. The man must be an Egyptian.

The national angularity of the shoulders and narrowness of the hips were alone sufficient to identify him.

John Vansittart Smith shuffled towards the attendant with some intention of addressing him. He was not light of
touch in conversation, and found it difficult to strike the happy mean between the brusqueness of the superior and the
geniality of the equal. As he came nearer, the man presented his side face to him, but kept his gaze still bent upon
his work. Vansittart Smith, fixing his eyes upon the fellow’s skin, was conscious of a sudden impression that there was
something inhuman and preternatural about its appearance. Over the temple and cheek-bone it was as glazed and as shiny
as varnished parchment. There was no suggestion of pores. One could not fancy a drop of moisture upon that arid
surface. From brow to chin, however, it was cross-hatched by a million delicate wrinkles, which shot and interlaced as
though Nature in some Maori mood had tried how wild and intricate a pattern she could devise.

“Ou est la collection de Memphis?” asked the student, with the awkward air of a man who is devising a question
merely for the purpose of opening a conversation.

“C’est la,” replied the man brusquely, nodding his head at the other side of the room.

“Vous etes un Egyptien, n’est-ce pas?” asked the Englishman.

The attendant looked up and turned his strange dark eyes upon his questioner. They were vitreous, with a misty dry
shininess, such as Smith had never seen in a human head before. As he gazed into them he saw some strong emotion gather
in their depths, which rose and deepened until it broke into a look of something akin both to horror and to hatred.

“Non, monsieur; je suis Fransais.” The man turned abruptly and bent low over his polishing. The student gazed at him
for a moment in astonishment, and then turning to a chair in a retired corner behind one of the doors he proceeded to
make notes of his researches among the papyri. His thoughts, however refused to return into their natural groove. They
would run upon the enigmatical attendant with the sphinx-like face and the parchment skin.

“Where have I seen such eyes?” said Vansittart Smith to himself. “There is something saurian about them, something
reptilian. There’s the membrana nictitans of the snakes,” he mused, bethinking himself of his zoological studies. “It
gives a shiny effect. But there was something more here. There was a sense of power, of wisdom — so I read them — and
of weariness, utter weariness, and ineffable despair. It may be all imagination, but I never had so strong an
impression. By Jove, I must have another look at them!” He rose and paced round the Egyptian rooms, but the man who had
excited his curiosity had disappeared.

The student sat down again in his quiet corner, and continued to work at his notes. He had gained the information
which he required from the papyri, and it only remained to write it down while it was still fresh in his memory. For a
time his pencil travelled rapidly over the paper, but soon the lines became less level, the words more blurred, and
finally the pencil tinkled down upon the floor, and the head of the student dropped heavily forward upon his chest.

Tired out by his journey, he slept so soundly in his lonely post behind the door that neither the clanking civil
guard, nor the footsteps of sightseers, nor even the loud hoarse bell which gives the signal for closing, were
sufficient to arouse him.

Twilight deepened into darkness, the bustle from the Rue de Rivoli waxed and then waned, distant Notre Dame clanged
out the hour of midnight, and still the dark and lonely figure sat silently in the shadow. It was not until close upon
one in the morning that, with a sudden gasp and an intaking of the breath, Vansittart Smith returned to consciousness.
For a moment it flashed upon him that he had dropped asleep in his study-chair at home. The moon was shining fitfully
through the unshuttered window, however, and, as his eye ran along the lines of mummies and the endless array of
polished cases, he remembered clearly where he was and how he came there. The student was not a nervous man. He
possessed that love of a novel situation which is peculiar to his race. Stretching out his cramped limbs, he looked at
his watch, and burst into a chuckle as he observed the hour. The episode would make an admirable anecdote to be
introduced into his next paper as a relief to the graver and heavier speculations. He was a little cold, but wide awake
and much refreshed. It was no wonder that the guardians had overlooked him, for the door threw its heavy black shadow
right across him.

The complete silence was impressive. Neither outside nor inside was there a creak or a murmur. He was alone with the
dead men of a dead civilisation. What though the outer city reeked of the garish nineteenth century! In all this
chamber there was scarce an article, from the shrivelled ear of wheat to the pigment-box of the painter, which had not
held its own against four thousand years. Here was the flotsam and jetsam washed up by the great ocean of time from
that far-off empire. From stately Thebes, from lordly Luxor, from the great temples of Heliopolis, from a hundred
rifled tombs, these relics had been brought. The student glanced round at the long silent figures who flickered vaguely
up through the gloom, at the busy toilers who were now so restful, and he fell into a reverent and thoughtful mood. An
unwonted sense of his own youth and insignificance came over him. Leaning back in his chair, he gazed dreamily down the
long vista of rooms, all silvery with the moonshine, which extend through the whole wing of the widespread building.
His eyes fell upon the yellow glare of a distant lamp.

John Vansittart Smith sat up on his chair with his nerves all on edge. The light was advancing slowly towards him,
pausing from time to time, and then coming jerkily onwards. The bearer moved noiselessly. In the utter silence there
was no suspicion of the pat of a footfall. An idea of robbers entered the Englishman’s head. He snuggled up further
into the corner. The light was two rooms off. Now it was in the next chamber, and still there was no sound. With
something approaching to a thrill of fear the student observed a face, floating in the air as it were, behind the flare
of the lamp. The figure was wrapped in shadow, but the light fell full upon the strange eager face. There was no
mistaking the metallic glistening eyes and the cadaverous skin. It was the attendant with whom he had conversed.

Vansittart Smith’s first impulse was to come forward and address him. A few words of explanation would set the
matter clear, and lead doubtless to his being conducted to some side door from which he might make his way to his
hotel. As the man entered the chamber, however, there was something so stealthy in his movements, and so furtive in his
expression, that the Englishman altered his intention. This was clearly no ordinary official walking the rounds. The
fellow wore felt-soled slippers, stepped with a rising chest, and glanced quickly from left to right, while his hurried
gasping breathing thrilled the flame of his lamp. Vansittart Smith crouched silently back into the corner and watched
him keenly, convinced that his errand was one of secret and probably sinister import.

There was no hesitation in the other’s movements. He stepped lightly and swiftly across to one of the great cases,
and, drawing a key from his pocket, he unlocked it. From the upper shelf he pulled down a mummy, which he bore away
with him, and laid it with much care and solicitude upon the ground. By it he placed his lamp, and then squatting down
beside it in Eastern fashion he began with long quivering fingers to undo the cerecloths and bandages which girt it
round. As the crackling rolls of linen peeled off one after the other, a strong aromatic odour filled the chamber, and
fragments of scented wood and of spices pattered down upon the marble floor.

It was clear to John Vansittart Smith that this mummy had never been unswathed before. The operation interested him
keenly. He thrilled all over with curiosity, and his birdlike head protruded further and further from behind the door.
When, however, the last roll had been removed from the four-thousand-year-old head, it was all that he could do to
stifle an outcry of amazement. First, a cascade of long, black, glossy tresses poured over the workman’s hands and
arms. A second turn of the bandage revealed a low, white forehead, with a pair of delicately arched eyebrows. A third
uncovered a pair of bright, deeply fringed eyes, and a straight, well-cut nose, while a fourth and last showed a sweet,
full, sensitive mouth, and a beautifully curved chin. The whole face was one of extraordinary loveliness, save for the
one blemish that in the centre of the forehead there was a single irregular, coffee-coloured splotch. It was a triumph
of the embalmer’s art. Vansittart Smith’s eyes grew larger and larger as he gazed upon it, and he chirruped in his
throat with satisfaction.

Its effect upon the Egyptologist was as nothing, however, compared with that which it produced upon the strange
attendant. He threw his hands up into the air, burst into a harsh clatter of words, and then, hurling himself down upon
the ground beside the mummy, he threw his arms round her, and kissed her repeatedly upon the lips and brow. “Ma
petite!” he groaned in French. “Ma pauvre petite!” His voice broke with emotion, and his innumerable wrinkles quivered
and writhed, but the student observed in the lamplight that his shining eyes were still as dry and tearless as two
beads of steel. For some minutes he lay, with a twitching face, crooning and moaning over the beautiful head. Then he
broke into a sudden smile, said some words in an unknown tongue, and sprang to his feet with the vigorous air of one
who has braced himself for an effort.

In the centre of the room there was a large circular case which contained, as the student had frequently remarked, a
magnificent collection of early Egyptian rings and precious stones. To this the attendant strode, and, unlocking it, he
threw it open. On the ledge at the side he placed his lamp, and beside it a small earthenware jar which he had drawn
from his pocket. He then took a handful of rings from the case, and with a most serious and anxious face he proceeded
to smear each in turn with some liquid substance from the earthen pot, holding them to the light as he did so. He was
clearly disappointed with the first lot, for he threw them petulantly back into the case, and drew out some more. One
of these, a massive ring with a large crystal set in it, he seized and eagerly tested with the contents of the jar.
Instantly he uttered a cry of joy, and threw out his arms in a wild gesture which upset the pot and sent the liquid
streaming across the floor to the very feet of the Englishman. The attendant drew a red handkerchief from his bosom,
and, mopping up the mess, he followed it into the corner, where in a moment he found himself face to face with his
observer.

“Excuse me,” said John Vansittart Smith, with all imaginable politeness; “I have been unfortunate enough to fall
asleep behind this door.”

“And you have been watching me?” the other asked in English, with a most venomous look on his corpse-like face.

The student was a man of veracity. “I confess,” said he, “that I have noticed your movements, and that they have
aroused my curiosity and interest in the highest degree.”

The man drew a long flamboyant-bladed knife from his bosom. “You have had a very narrow escape,” he said; “had I
seen you ten minutes ago, I should have driven this through your heart. As it is, if you touch me or interfere with me
in any way you are a dead man.”

“I have no wish to interfere with you,” the student answered. “My presence here is entirely accidental. All I ask is
that you will have the extreme kindness to show me out through some side door.” He spoke with great suavity, for the
man was still pressing the tip of his dagger against the palm of his left hand, as though to assure himself of its
sharpness, while his face preserved its malignant expression.

“If I thought ——” said he. “But no, perhaps it is as well. What is your name?”

The Englishman gave it.

“Vansittart Smith,” the other repeated. “Are you the same Vansittart Smith who gave a paper in London upon El Kab? I
saw a report of it. Your knowledge of the subject is contemptible.”

“Sir!” cried the Egyptologist.

“Yet it is superior to that of many who make even greater pretensions. The whole keystone of our old life in Egypt
was not the inscriptions or monuments of which you make so much, but was our hermetic philosophy and mystic knowledge,
of which you say little or nothing.”

“Our old life!” repeated the scholar, wide-eyed; and then suddenly, “Good God, look at the mummy’s face!”

The strange man turned and flashed his light upon the dead woman, uttering a long doleful cry as he did so. The
action of the air had already undone all the art of the embalmer. The skin had fallen away, the eyes had sunk inwards,
the discoloured lips had writhed away from the yellow teeth, and the brown mark upon the forehead alone showed that it
was indeed the same face which had shown such youth and beauty a few short minutes before.

The man flapped his hands together in grief and horror. Then mastering himself by a strong effort he turned his hard
eyes once more upon the Englishman.

“It does not matter,” he said, in a shaking voice. “It does not really matter. I came here to-night with the fixed
determination to do something. It is now done. All else is as nothing. I have found my quest. The old curse is broken.
I can rejoin her. What matter about her inanimate shell so long as her spirit is awaiting me at the other side of the
veil!”

“These are wild words,” said Vansittart Smith. He was becoming more and more convinced that he had to do with a
madman.

“Time presses, and I must go,” continued the other. “The moment is at hand for which I have waited this weary time.
But I must show you out first. Come with me.”

Taking up the lamp, he turned from the disordered chamber, and led the student swiftly through the long series of
the Egyptian, Assyrian, and Persian apartments. At the end of the latter he pushed open a small door let into the wall
and descended a winding stone stair. The Englishman felt the cold fresh air of the night upon his brow. There was a
door opposite him which appeared to communicate with the street. To the right of this another door stood ajar, throwing
a spurt of yellow light across the passage. “Come in here!” said the attendant shortly.

Vansittart Smith hesitated. He had hoped that he had come to the end of his adventure. Yet his curiosity was strong
within him. He could not leave the matter unsolved, so he followed his strange companion into the lighted chamber.

It was a small room, such as is devoted to a concierge. A wood fire sparkled in the grate. At one side stood a
truckle bed, and at the other a coarse wooden chair, with a round table in the centre, which bore the remains of a
meal. As the visitor’s eye glanced round he could not but remark with an ever-recurring thrill that all the small
details of the room were of the most quaint design and antique workmanship. The candlesticks, the vases upon the
chimney-piece, the fire-irons, the ornaments upon the walls, were all such as he had been wont to associate with the
remote past. The gnarled heavy-eyed man sat himself down upon the edge of the bed, and motioned his guest into the
chair.

“There may be design in this,” he said, still speaking excellent English. “It may be decreed that I should leave
some account behind as a warning to all rash mortals who would set their wits up against workings of Nature. I leave it
with you. Make such use as you will of it. I speak to you now with my feet upon the threshold of the other world.

“I am, as you surmised, an Egyptian — not one of the down-trodden race of slaves who now inhabit the Delta of the
Nile, but a survivor of that fiercer and harder people who tamed the Hebrew, drove the Ethiopian back into the southern
deserts, and built those mighty works which have been the envy and the wonder of all after generations. It was in the
reign of Tuthmosis, sixteen hundred years before the birth of Christ, that I first saw the light. You shrink away from
me. Wait, and you will see that I am more to be pitied than to be feared.

“My name was Sosra. My father had been the chief priest of Osiris in the great temple of Abaris, which stood in
those days upon the Bubastic branch of the Nile. I was brought up in the temple and was trained in all those mystic
arts which are spoken of in your own Bible. I was an apt pupil. Before I was sixteen I had learned all which the wisest
priest could teach me. From that time on I studied Nature’s secrets for myself, and shared my knowledge with no
man.

“Of all the questions which attracted me there were none over which I laboured so long as over those which concern
themselves with the nature of life. I probed deeply into the vital principle. The aim of medicine had been to drive
away disease when it appeared. It seemed to me that a method might be devised which should so fortify the body as to
prevent weakness or death from ever taking hold of it. It is useless that I should recount my researches. You would
scarce comprehend them if I did. They were carried out partly upon animals, partly upon slaves, and partly on myself.
Suffice it that their result was to furnish me with a substance which, when injected into the blood, would endow the
body with strength to resist the effects of time, of violence, or of disease. It would not indeed confer immortality,
but its potency would endure for many thousands of years. I used it upon a cat, and afterwards drugged the creature
with the most deadly poisons. That cat is alive in Lower Egypt at the present moment. There was nothing of mystery or
magic in the matter. It was simply a chemical discovery, which may well be made again.

“Love of life runs high in the young. It seemed to me that I had broken away from all human care now that I had
abolished pain and driven death to such a distance. With a light heart I poured the accursed stuff into my veins. Then
I looked round for some one whom I could benefit. There was a young priest of Thoth, Parmes by name, who had won my
goodwill by his earnest nature and his devotion to his studies. To him I whispered my secret, and at his request I
injected him with my elixir. I should now, I reflected, never be without a companion of the same age as myself.

“After this grand discovery I relaxed my studies to some extent, but Parmes continued his with redoubled energy.
Every day I could see him working with his flasks and his distiller in the Temple of Thoth, but he said little to me as
to the result of his labours. For my own part, I used to walk through the city and look around me with exultation as I
reflected that all this was destined to pass away, and that only I should remain. The people would bow to me as they
passed me, for the fame of my knowledge had gone abroad.

“There was war at this time, and the Great King had sent down his soldiers to the eastern boundary to drive away the
Hyksos. A Governor, too, was sent to Abaris, that he might hold it for the King. I had heard much of the beauty of the
daughter of this Governor, but one day as I walked out with Parmes we met her, borne upon the shoulders of her slaves.
I was struck with love as with lightning. My heart went out from me. I could have thrown myself beneath the feet of her
bearers. This was my woman. Life without her was impossible. I swore by the head of Horus that she should be mine. I
swore it to the Priest of Thoth. He turned away from me with a brow which was as black as midnight.

“There is no need to tell you of our wooing. She came to love me even as I loved her. I learned that Parmes had seen
her before I did, and had shown her that he too loved her, but I could smile at his passion, for I knew that her heart
was mine. The white plague had come upon the city and many were stricken, but I laid my hands upon the sick and nursed
them without fear or scathe. She marvelled at my daring. Then I told her my secret, and begged her that she would let
me use my art upon her.

“‘Your flower shall then be unwithered, Atma,’ I said. ‘Other things may pass away, but you and I, and our great
love for each other, shall outlive the tomb of King Chefru.’

“But she was full of timid, maidenly objections. ‘Was it right?’ she asked, ‘was it not a thwarting of the will of
the gods? If the great Osiris had wished that our years should be so long, would he not himself have brought it
about?’

“With fond and loving words I overcame her doubts, and yet she hesitated. It was a great question, she said. She
would think it over for this one night. In the morning I should know her resolution. Surely one night was not too much
to ask. She wished to pray to Isis for help in her decision.

“With a sinking heart and a sad foreboding of evil I left her with her tirewomen. In the morning, when the early
sacrifice was over, I hurried to her house. A frightened slave met me upon the steps. Her mistress was ill, she said,
very ill. In a frenzy I broke my way through the attendants, and rushed through hall and corridor to my Atma’s chamber.
She lay upon her couch, her head high upon the pillow, with a pallid face and a glazed eye. On her forehead there
blazed a single angry purple patch. I knew that hell-mark of old. It was the scar of the white plague, the sign-manual
of death.

“Why should I speak of that terrible time? For months I was mad, fevered, delirious, and yet I could not die. Never
did an Arab thirst after the sweet wells as I longed after death. Could poison or steel have shortened the thread of my
existence, I should soon have rejoined my love in the land with the narrow portal. I tried, but it was of no avail. The
accursed influence was too strong upon me. One night as I lay upon my couch, weak and weary, Parmes, the priest of
Thoth, came to my chamber. He stood in the circle of the lamplight, and he looked down upon me with eyes which were
bright with a mad joy.

“‘Why did you let the maiden die?’ he asked; ‘why did you not strengthen her as you strengthened me?’

“‘I was too late,’ I answered. ‘But I had forgot. You also loved her. You are my fellow in misfortune. Is it not
terrible to think of the centuries which must pass ere we look upon her again? Fools, fools, that we were to take death
to be our enemy!’

“‘You may say that,’ he cried with a wild laugh; ‘the words come well from your lips. For me they have no
meaning.’

“‘What mean you?’ I cried, raising myself upon my elbow. ‘Surely, friend, this grief has turned your brain.’ His
face was aflame with joy, and he writhed and shook like one who hath a devil.

“‘Do you know whither I go?’ he asked.

“‘Nay,’ I answered, ‘I cannot tell.’

“‘I go to her,’ said he. ‘She lies embalmed in the further tomb by the double palm-tree beyond the city wall.’

“‘Why do you go there?’ I asked.

“‘To die!’ he shrieked, ‘to die! I am not bound by earthen fetters.’

“‘But the elixir is in your blood,’ I cried.

“‘I can defy it,’ said he; ‘I have found a stronger principle which will destroy it. It is working in my veins at
this moment, and in an hour I shall be a dead man. I shall join her, and you shall remain behind.’

“As I looked upon him I could see that he spoke words of truth. The light in his eye told me that he was indeed
beyond the power of the elixir.

“‘You will teach me!’ I cried.

“‘Never!’ he answered.

“‘I implore you, by the wisdom of Thoth, by the majesty of Anubis!’

“‘It is useless,’ he said coldly.

“‘Then I will find it out,’ I cried.

“‘You cannot,’ he answered; ‘it came to me by chance. There is one ingredient which you can never get. Save that
which is in the ring of Thoth, none will ever more be made.

“‘In the ring of Thoth!’ I repeated; ‘where then is the ring of Thoth?’

“‘That also you shall never know,’ he answered. ‘You won her love. Who has won in the end? I leave you to your
sordid earth life. My chains are broken. I must go!’ He turned upon his heel and fled from the chamber. In the morning
came the news that the Priest of Thoth was dead.

“My days after that were spent in study. I must find this subtle poison which was strong enough to undo the elixir.
From early dawn to midnight I bent over the test-tube and the furnace. Above all, I collected the papyri and the
chemical flasks of the Priest of Thoth. Alas! they taught me little. Here and there some hint or stray expression would
raise hope in my bosom, but no good ever came of it. Still, month after month, I struggled on. When my heart grew faint
I would make my way to the tomb by the palm-trees. There, standing by the dead casket from which the jewel had been
rifled, I would feel her sweet presence, and would whisper to her that I would rejoin her if mortal wit could solve the
riddle.

“Parmes had said that his discovery was connected with the ring of Thoth. I had some remembrance of the trinket. It
was a large and weighty circlet, made, not of gold, but of a rarer and heavier metal brought from the mines of Mount
Harbal. Platinum, you call it. The ring had, I remembered, a hollow crystal set in it, in which some few drops of
liquid might be stored. Now, the secret of Parmes could not have to do with the metal alone, for there were many rings
of that metal in the Temple. Was it not more likely that he had stored his precious poison within the cavity of the
crystal? I had scarce come to this conclusion before, in hunting through his papers, I came upon one which told me that
it was indeed so, and that there was still some of the liquid unused.

“But how to find the ring? It was not upon him when he was stripped for the embalmer. Of that I made sure. Neither
was it among his private effects. In vain I searched every room that he had entered, every box, and vase, and chattel
that he had owned. I sifted the very sand of the desert in the places where he had been wont to walk; but, do what I
would, I could come upon no traces of the ring of Thoth. Yet it may be that my labours would have overcome all
obstacles had it not been for a new and unlooked-for misfortune.

“A great war had been waged against the Hyksos, and the Captains of the Great King had been cut off in the desert,
with all their bowmen and horsemen. The shepherd tribes were upon us like the locusts in a dry year. From the
wilderness of Shur to the great bitter lake there was blood by day and fire by night. Abaris was the bulwark of Egypt,
but we could not keep the savages back. The city fell. The Governor and the soldiers were put to the sword, and I, with
many more, was led away into captivity.

“For years and years I tended cattle in the great plains by the Euphrates. My master died, and his son grew old, but
I was still as far from death as ever. At last I escaped upon a swift camel, and made my way back to Egypt. The Hyksos
had settled in the land which they had conquered, and their own King ruled over the country Abaris had been torn down,
the city had been burned, and of the great Temple there was nothing left save an unsightly mound. Everywhere the tombs
had been rifled and the monuments destroyed. Of my Atma’s grave no sign was left. It was buried in the sands of the
desert, and the palm-trees which marked the spot had long disappeared. The papers of Parmes and the remains of the
Temple of Thoth were either destroyed or scattered far and wide over the deserts of Syria. All search after them was
vain.

“From that time I gave up all hope of ever finding the ring or discovering the subtle drug. I set myself to live as
patiently as might be until the effect of the elixir should wear away. How can you understand how terrible a thing time
is, you who have experience only of the narrow course which lies between the cradle and the grave! I know it to my
cost, I who have floated down the whole stream of history. I was old when Ilium fell. I was very old when Herodotus
came to Memphis. I was bowed down with years when the new gospel came upon earth. Yet you see me much as other men are,
with the cursed elixir still sweetening my blood, and guarding me against that which I would court. Now at last, at
last I have come to the end of it!

“I have travelled in all lands and I have dwelt with all nations. Every tongue is the same to me. I learned them all
to help pass the weary time. I need not tell you how slowly they drifted by, the long dawn of modern civilisation, the
dreary middle years, the dark times of barbarism. They are all behind me now, I have never looked with the eyes of love
upon another woman. Atma knows that I have been constant to her.

“It was my custom to read all that the scholars had to say upon Ancient Egypt. I have been in many positions,
sometimes affluent, sometimes poor, but I have always found enough to enable me to buy the journals which deal with
such matters. Some nine months ago I was in San Francisco, when I read an account of some discoveries made in the
neighbourhood of Abaris. My heart leapt into my mouth as I read it. It said that the excavator had busied himself in
exploring some tombs recently unearthed. In one there had been found an unopened mummy with an inscription upon the
outer case setting forth that it contained the body of the daughter of the Governor of the city in the days of
Tuthmosis. It added that on removing the outer case there had been exposed a large platinum ring set with a crystal,
which had been laid upon the breast of the embalmed woman. This, then was where Parmes had hid the ring of Thoth. He
might well say that it was safe, for no Egyptian would ever stain his soul by moving even the outer case of a buried
friend.

“That very night I set off from San Francisco, and in a few weeks I found myself once more at Abaris, if a few
sand-heaps and crumbling walls may retain the name of the great city. I hurried to the Frenchmen who were digging there
and asked them for the ring. They replied that both the ring and the mummy had been sent to the Boulak Museum at Cairo.
To Boulak I went, but only to be told that Mariette Bey had claimed them and had shipped them to the Louvre. I followed
them, and there at last, in the Egyptian chamber, I came, after close upon four thousand years, upon the remains of my
Atma, and upon the ring for which I had sought so long.

“But how was I to lay hands upon them? How was I to have them for my very own? It chanced that the office of
attendant was vacant. I went to the Director. I convinced him that I knew much about Egypt. In my eagerness I said too
much. He remarked that a Professor’s chair would suit me better than a seat in the Conciergerie. I knew more, he said,
than he did. It was only by blundering, and letting him think that he had over-estimated my knowledge, that I prevailed
upon him to let me move the few effects which I have retained into this chamber. It is my first and my last night
here.

“Such is my story, Mr. Vansittart Smith. I need not say more to a man of your perception. By a strange chance you
have this night looked upon the face of the woman whom I loved in those far-off days. There were many rings with
crystals in the case, and I had to test for the platinum to be sure of the one which I wanted. A glance at the crystal
has shown me that the liquid is indeed within it, and that I shall at last be able to shake off that accursed health
which has been worse to me than the foulest disease. I have nothing more to say to you. I have unburdened myself. You
may tell my story or you may withhold it at your pleasure. The choice rests with you. I owe you some amends, for you
have had a narrow escape of your life this night. I was a desperate man, and not to be baulked in my purpose. Had I
seen you before the thing was done, I might have put it beyond your power to oppose me or to raise an alarm. This is
the door. It leads into the Rue de Rivoli. Good night!”

The Englishman glanced back. For a moment the lean figure of Sosra the Egyptian stood framed in the narrow doorway.
The next the door had slammed, and the heavy rasping of a bolt broke on the silent night.

It was on the second day after his return to London that Mr. John Vansittart Smith saw the following concise
narrative in the Paris correspondence of the Times:—

“Curious Occurrence in the Louvre.— Yesterday morning a strange discovery was made in the principal Egyptian
Chamber. The ouvriers who are employed to clean out the rooms in the morning found one of the attendants lying dead
upon the floor with his arms round one of the mummies. So close was his embrace that it was only with the utmost
difficulty that they were separated. One of the cases containing valuable rings had been opened and rifled. The
authorities are of opinion that the man was bearing away the mummy with some idea of selling it to a private collector,
but that he was struck down in the very act by long-standing disease of the heart. It is said that he was a man of
uncertain age and eccentric habits, without any living relations to mourn over his dramatic and untimely end.”

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